
J 


f 

I 

< 



» • 

I 111 


i 

i i 

< .1 

1 > 

} > 

1 1 


: 

I 


I 

1 

} ‘ \ f 

4 ' * 

• 'i 

i 


1 


% 



m 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Shel£P..i^A- A 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 





















“My wife! what wife? I have no wife!” — Othello. 


ALICE; 

OE, 

The TV" ages of* ©in. 

A NOVEL, 

■JBsr IP_ W_ 


NEW YORK : 
Charles T. Dillingham. 
1883. 








r> 


ALICE 

OR 

THE WAGES OF SIN. 



I 

“ Oh fearful sight for men to look upon ! 

Most fearful of all woes 

I hitherto have known ! What madness strange 
Has come on thee, thou wretched one ? 

What power, with one fell swoop, 

Ills heaping upon ills, 

Than greatest greater yet, 

Has marked thee for its prey ? 

Woe! woe! thou doomed one, wishing much to ask, 
And much to learn, and much to gaze into ; 

I can not look on thee. 

So horrible the sight ! ’ — Sophocles. 



NEW YORK : 
Charles T. Dillingham 
1883. \ 


/ 


rp in^ 


\ 


Copyright 

1883 

By F. W. Pangborn. 


\ 


Press of 

Evening Journal Association, 
Jersey City, N. J. 



DEDICATION. 


TO MV FATHER: 


1 Such as I have, give I thee. 



CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER I. Page. 

Given Up by the Waters 1 

CHAPTER II. # 

Too Late ! 7 

CHAPTER III. 

The Partners 12 


CHAPTER IV. 

An Unheeded Omen 



CHAPTER V. 

From the Grave 



CHAPTER VI. 

Mr. Dojere in a Dungeon 


.. 40 

CHAPTER VII. 

Stolen from the Dead 



CHAPTER VIII. 

A Dishonored Father 


. 59 

CHAPTER IX. 

Saved by a Woman’s Tears 


.. 68 

CHAPTER X. 

Gathering of the Storm-cloud 


.. 77 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Calm before the Storm 


. 87 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Storm-cloud Bursts 



CHAPTER XIII. 

The Wages of Sin . . 


..109 



PREFACE 


u T o-morrow the critics will commence. You know who the critics are ? 
The men who have failed in literature and art.” — Lothair. 

This book is given to the reader, as the ex- 
position of a terrible possibility in actual life. 
Should there be found, in its pages, any warm 
tints, any cheering or amusing passages, the 
author will be glad to know that they have 
brightened a moment of some reader’s life. But 
he has not written merely to amuse. He has 
sought to “ point a moral,” as well as to “adorn a 
tale ; ” and, if the work shall become the means 
of helping some sincere soul to a strengthening 
of its determination to think before acting, to 
study consequences before creating causes, the 
author will not have written in vain. 


f. w. p. 



f 


ALICE; 

OR 

THE WAGES OF SIN. 




CHAPTER I. 

“ Moan, moan, ye dying gales 1 
The saddest of your tales 
Is not so sad as life ; 

Nor have you e’er began 
A theme so wild as man, 

Or with such sorrow rife.” 

“ Darling Mamie: — Come home if you wish 
to see your mother alive. l. p. m.” 

> 

Thus read a note among the “ Personals ” of 
a metropolitan journal, which was in everybody’s 
hands, on a chilly October morning, not many 
years ago. Nearly everybody read this journal, 
and many read the short item addressed to 
“Darling Mamie;” a few even paused, in thought, 


2 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


to wonder, in a passing way, who the writer might 
be, and to whom the appeal might be addressed. 
Such a notice was not like the majority of those in 
the same column with it. It came not from silly 
intriguante, shrewd scoundrel, wily lawyer or dash- 
ing swell. Its message was of a different tone 
from those above and below it. It had naught to 
do with clandestine meetings, or estates to be had 
for the asking (and the fees), in England. Its 
message was simple and not at all mysterious, but 
it told a tale of terror, sorrow and suspense, a tale 
of breaking hearts and of souls full of misery. A 
dying mother’s last appeal to a wayward daughter, 
a last chance offered a lost girl, to come again 
to the loving heart which had cared for her from 
the cradle, it was sent broadcast over the land, 
in the hope that the wanderer might see it, and 
come home. 

Only one, who has been the sender of such a 
message, can know the pain of suspense, which 
must follow its publication. The restless nights, 
the listening fot the ring of the door-bell, the 
hurried reading of the papers in vain search for 
an answering message, the reiterated, “ will it find 
her ! oh, will she see it J ” of the voice and heart. 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


3 


Each heart knoweth its own bitterness, and each 
must suffer for itself. We can felicitate another 
in his happiness, sometimes congratulate him ; we 
can mourn with him in his sorrow, but seldom in- 
telligently sympathize with him. Only to those, 
who have themselves passed through the dark 
valley, is the profundity of its darkness known. 
To know what it is to suffer, one must suffer 
himself ; and of all sorrows, the sorrow of a break- 
ing heart is the sorrow, which must oftenest sob 
itself to rest in its own tears. 

Such were the heart-throbs which appeared in 
that little two-line notice. Did they awake an 
answering throb in the heart of the lost wanderer 
to whom alone, of all the vast multitude who might 
read them, they were addressed ? Did this last 
pleading turn back the stray lamb to its mother’s 
fold, even though but to see her die ? Alas, like 
many another piteous appeal, did this one go 
wailing forth, only to be lost in empty air ? Did 
it not find in its broadcast multification an an- 
swering heart? Was this already sorrow-burdened 
mother-heart to be denied that one last solace, 
before it should cease to beat, and be forever 
still ? Was she to die with the despairing, “ Eli, 


4 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


Eli , lama sabachthani ! ” gn her quivering lips? 
Such things make it hard to believe in the mercy 
of God. After months of agonizing prayer, months 
of untiring search, here, there, everywhere, with 
all the help that man can give and money can 
buy, can it be that, in the end, no ray of light 
shall break in upon such darkness ; that the end 
shall be even as the beginning ; can such things 
be, and not wring from the soul the cry, “ My 
God — my God, why hast thou forsaken me ! ” 
The God-Man could not refrain from such a 
feeling of despair, and shall a mother be stronger 
than Christ ? Was this dying woman to pass 
away, with this cry on her lips ? It were hard to 
think it ; but let the story tell itself, and, perhaps, 
the reader may find a lesspn, teaching how much 
evil may follow a bad beginning, and how the 
sins of man may come back upon his own head, 
and even involve the innocent in the doom of 
the guilty. 

Many of the numerous readers of that news- 
paper, which appeared that chill October morn- 
ing, read, in another column, another article ’of 
somewhat more public interest ; but none of the 
readers, it is safe to say, thought of connecting 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


5 


it in any way with the two-line notice already 
quoted. The item of news was one, which inter- 
ested the newspaper reporters and police officials 
for a short time, and which read as follows : 

“ Last night, at 1 130 o’clock, some men em- 
ployed at the National steamship docks found 
the body of a young woman floating in the water. 
The woman was apparently about seventeen years 
of age, fair hair, hazel eyes, light complexion, 
and her features were regular and handsome. 
She was dressed in an old, black alpaca dress, 
but her underclothing was of a quality too fine 
to correspond with the dress, and bespoke good 
circumstances on the part of the wearer. Nothing 
by which the girl could be identified was found 
on the body. She was taken to the morgue.” 

So read the terse newspaper account of a 
woman’s sad death. The corpse of the dead girl 
was exposed in the city morgue for the custom- 
ary period ; many came to gaze upon the calm 
features, now free from all signs of trouble, and 
many remarked the beauty of the face. But none 
knew who she was ; and so, in due time, she was 
buried in the public plot of the cemetery, there 
to rest, unknown and forgotten, through the roll- 


6 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


ing years, while other $ad deaths and other 
women’s woes' should interest the world in their 
turn, and pass on into oblivion, like herself and 
her sorrow. 


CHAPTER II. 


“No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world’s peace to pray; 

For, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air. 

Her woman’s heart gave way ! — 

But the sin, forgiven by Christ in Heaven, 

By man is cursed alway ! ” 

In the crisp air of an October evening, while 
the printers in that great newspaper building were 
setting the types of that little two-line message, 
which a sad-faced, gray-haired gentleman had 
given to the office clerk for publication, a girl- 
ish figure plodded along, with weary steps, in 
the road leading to the city from a neighboring 
suburb. At intervals of, perhaps half an hour, this 
young woman paused, and, leaning against a fence, 
or tree, rested, for she was very tired and had 
come a long distance, having already walked from 
the city to the suburban town. She was fair and 
sweet to look upon, and noble in appearance, but 
trouble and woe were now upon her, and she 
would have looked poorly indeed to those who, 


8 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


a short time before, were pleased to behold her. 

Her errand to that town had been a sad one, 
but she had done it successfully, and now, re- 
lieved of her burden, she was trudging back to 
the city, and to death. 

Her story is easily told. Mary Morton had 
met a fate similar to that which befalls many a 
noble girl. Daughter of x affluent parents, she had 
been thrown into the society of the highest classes 
of her city, and had become acquainted with a 
young collegian, with whom she fell in love, at 
the age of sixteen years. This young man, not 
yet of age himself, she had been persuaded into 
marrying clandestinely, he making it an excuse 
that, if his marriage were known, he would not 
be allowed to remain in his college. Therefore, 
agreeing to keep the marriage a secret, until he 
should have graduated, she consented to the 
union. 

The time went by, and the young student’s 
graduation day was near at hand, and Mary was 
filled with an anxious happiness, when she, one 
day, received a letter from him, telling her that 
he had received a tempting offer from abroad, 
which he must accept, as soon as he should leave 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


9 


college, and asking her to wait a little longer, be- 
fore making their marriage public. 

Filled with grief and horror, the alarmed girl 
wrote him, in reply, that she could delay no 
longer, and that he must come home and ac- 
knowledge her. The reply to this was, that 
he would do as he pleased, that there was no 
legal marriage, both being minors at the time, 
and that he would go abroad at once. Mary 
wrote again, this tiihe an humble, piteous appeal, 
but the young man did not reply. 

Stung to the heart by such treatment, and 
terrified by the future, she fled, soon after, from 
home, and was never again seen by her relatives. 

She found some work in a factory for a time, 
but approaching maternity soon drove her from 
that ; and, after leaving the hospital, with her 
baby in her arms, she had drifted aimlessly 
about, begging for work, and getting none. 

The little money, which she had, is gone ; 
and, to-night, heartsore and footsore, she is walk- 
ing back to the great city, leaving her baby be- 
hind her, and wondering, in a dazed way, why 
she should thus suffer. As she plods along the 
dark road, she lives over again, in a dream-like 


10 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


sense, the happy days of her life. She sees her 
noble father, always so proud of her, the older 
sister, to whom she was wont to go with every 
childish trouble, and to whom she has just gone, 
although the sister knows it not, with her last 
earthly care ; and she sees once more the mother- 
face, gentle and good — and then she sees no 
more, but breaks forth into violent sobs, which 
attract the notice of a passer-by — and she hurries 
on her way. 

How long it seems. Why go back to the city 
at all ? There is but one life there for her, and 
that life she will not live. She may be? a ruined 
and lost girl, but she is still proud -and pure in 
heart. So on she goes. But the thought keeps 
recurring — why go back at all ? Why not end it 
here ? The river is just as calm and deep over 
there as in the city, and why go on ? She comes 
to a cross-road ; surely it must be an invitation 
for her, for it leads directly toward the river. 
She takes the new road ; the lights of the city 
are in si^ht, but she is not now nearing them 
any longer. Here is the river. She did not ex- 
pect to reach it quite so soon, but then, perhaps, 
it is better so. 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 11 

She stands above the dark water now, upon a 
little pier, to which a pretty pleasure boat is 
moored. A thought comes to her: will some 
fair maid to-morrow sail forth, in this pretty lit- 
tle boat, with her lover ? Perhaps. Love and 
life may launch their bark here to-morrow; de- 
spair and death shall be here to-night. 

She takes one last look at the still stars, in 
their soft, dark bed of sky, one look at the same 
quiet stars, reflected in the dark water, and, with 
the word “ mother ” softly trembling on her lips, 
she is gone, and the river receives her in its am- 
ple bosom. Too late, oh dying mother! Too 
late, oh sorrowing father! Your gentle call, sent 
broadcast throughout the land, published in a 
thousand places, spread among thousands of peo- 
ple, is too late. Not all the newspapers in the 
world, not all the telegraphs in the land, can call 
the lost one back. She is gone — gone to the 
gentle river, which received her, when the world 
would not; gone to the arms of Him who said, 
“ Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy 
laden,” and who meant it. Lost to the world, 
lost to the father, lost to the mother — gone. 


CHAPTER III. 


“ Business associations seldom reveal the inner life of a man.” 

Mr. Dojere was in his office, alone. Mr. Do- 
jere was not a man to be easily put out of tem- 
per, that is when business was good, as it was at 
present, but he was not feeling just right this 
morning, despite the fact that business was good 
and the firm of Dojere & Co. was in a prosper- 
ous condition. The fact was that it was not 
business at all, which troubled Mr. Dojere this 
morning. For forty years the firm of Dojere & 
Co. had been in business, and now Mr. Dojere 
was in such a position that he might have re- 
tired altogether, had he felt like so doing, but he 
did not. Mr. Dojere was a man whom few un- 
derstood, and with whom few could get along. 
Abrupt in speech, blunt even to incivility at 
times, he was a man who seldom won the cor- 
diality of strangers, yet those who knew him 
well, understood that, beneath his rugged exterior, 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


13 


there was the heart of an honest, upright man, 
and respected him as a good citizen, and the 
next best thing to a true gentleman, a true man. 

Mr. Dojere had a wife, a sweet tempered wo- 
man, who, by the way, was the only “boss” that 
Mr. Dojere had, for she knew how to manage 
him, and a family of numerous children, among 
them an adopted daughter, who was very dear 
to him. 

This girl was now eighteen years of age, and 
as lovely a young woman as man ever gazed 
upon; and it was about this very person that 
Mr. Dojere was at present worried. The girl was 
very dear to her adopted father, and it was with 
no small degree of anxiety that he began to fear, 
lest she might form an attachment, which would 
bring her unhappiness or life-long misery. For 
young Albert Thornbury, his junior partner, who 
had been abroad in charge of the foreign business 
for several years, was at home now, and a guest 
at Mr. Dojere’s house, and that worthy elderly 
gentleman had not failed, being a keen observer, 
to notice that Alice had already found favor in 
Albert’s eyes, and that Albert had been not 
unkindly received by Alice. 


14 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


Mr. Dojere was not disposed to like this sort 
of a match, for the simple reason that he loved 
his girl too much to risk her happiness with a 
man of such a nature, as he thought Thornbury’s 
might be; "so, while satisfied with his younger 
fellow-businessman as a business partner, he did 
not relish the prospect of having him for a son- 
in-law. Mr. Dojere knew but little of Albert’s 
life while abroad, but he feared that it had not 
been of the kind to fit a man to become a good 
husband. Hence it was, that Mr. Dojere was 
not in a good humor, on the day of which we 
write; and he was going over, in his mind, the 
pros and cons of the matter, when Thornbury 
himself entered the office. 

Mr. Dojere was right. Albert was a handsome 
fellow and a dangerous one for young girls to 
know. Thirty-seven years of age, tall and as 
finely formed as a first-class soldier, beautiful in 
face as a Greek ideal, and possessed of all the 
culture of a finished gentleman, he was a man 
eminently fitted to win the hearts of women, and, 
if reports were true, they were not a few, who had 
already been captivated by his graces. He was 
credited with having committed' all the follies of 


aLice ; or, The wages of sin. 


15 


mankind, excepting marriage, but, really, no one 
had ever charged him, with proof, of being guilty 
of any dishonorable act. It was only gossip, per- 
haps, but, nevertheless, Mr. Dojere would have pre- 
ferred that Albert should have remained abroad, 
or else .that he should have waited until Alice 
was well married (say to his son Joe, a matter 
which, may have had something to do with the 
emotions of Mr. Dojere’s heart) before returning 
to America. 

However, Albert was here, and, although he 
might do his best, there was little hope that Mr. 
Dojere would be able to engineer this matter 
in his own way, if Albert should strive to do, as 
his senior feared that he might. 

As the junior partner entered the room, Mr. 
Dojere could not help admiring the graceful 
dignity of the gentleman, who stood before him 
and gave him a genuine “ good morning.” It 
was the instinctive homage which the commoYier 
man always pays to the gentleman, even in a 
republic, where “one man is as good as another,” 
as the low emigrant who comes here, imbued 
with a foreigner’s hatred of “the government,” 
says, and which, being translated, means: “ I refuse 


10 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


to recognize the fact that there are differences 
between men other than those laid down by law.” 

“ Good morning, sir,” said Albert, cordially 
extending his hand, and drawing up a chair. “ I 
see that my old friend has lost none of his 
methodical habits. Always on hand at the time 
set, and always interested in his work. I wish 
that I might say as much for the junior member, 
but I fear that — ” 

“ Le’ me tell you, le’ me tell you,” interrupted 
the elder with his customary abruptness, “such 
talk as that is all nonsense. Your management 
abroad has been first class. However, as I have 
always said, there is nothing like system, and 
everybody should acquire it.” 

“True,” replied the other, “systematic habits 
are good things to form, as the schoolmaster said, 
when he thrashed the whole school every morn- 
ing, in order to get that part of the work done 
and out of the way for the day, but to a single 
man, without home ties or attachments, system in 
everything is difficult of attainment. Now if a 
man is married — ” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Dojere, snapping his 
fingers and blowing out his cheeks, a habit of 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


17 


his when in earnest ; “ that’s just it. You are a 
right good business man, Thornbury, and have 
plenty of brains, but you don’t settle, and I tell 
you a fellow must settle down, if he wants to 
make a man of himself.” 

“ That is an idea which I have had in my 
mind for a long time, sir,” replied the other; 
“but circumstances have not been favorable. In 
the first place, marriage, in my way of thinking, 
means more than a simple living together in peace 
and harmony, love and comfort. Of course, all 
these must be included in connubial bliss, but 
these alone would be, to a man of my tempera- 
ment, simply a stupid bondage — a sort of mutual 
stagnation, in which neither party would become 
any better, wiser or nobler than each was at the 
start.” 

“ I’m afraid your ideal is rather above that of 
most of us,” replied the elder. 

“ Perhaps it is,” said Albert, “but it is an ideal, 
and as such I must abide by it, or remain as I 
am.” 

“ Yes ; but le’ me tell you,” said Mr. Dojere, 
“ that if half the rumors I have heard concern- 
ing you when abroad be correct, your ideal does 


18 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


not seem to worry you much in your practical 
life.” 

“ From you, sir,” replied Albert, “ knowing you 
as I do, these words may be taken without um- 
brage ; but, remember, please, that I have never 
been in the habit of making my private life a 
subject of conversation, and that what is past is 
past. If there are any dark pages in my history, 
they are written, and, I hope, sealed in secrecy, 
and it is not my intention to review them at the 
present day, but to profit by them in future, and 
use them as guides to a better life. I am now 
at an age when, as you say, I should settle, and, 
could I find the wife whom my heart craves, I 
would be only too happy to wed her and cherish 
her as a wife should be cherished. Your advice, 
sir, has always been good, and your judgment in 
business matters sound, but I fear that on the 
subject of marriage I should fail to^ find, even 
in you, a satisfactory confessor for my heart and 
soul. Let us drop that subject and look over 
the business.” 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Dojere, and the two men 
were soon absorbed in business. 

Late that afternoon, as Mr. Dojere walked slowly 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


19 


home, the conversation of his young partner kept 
recurring to his mind, and, the more he thought 
over it, the more it puzzled him. He had heard 
queer rumors concerning this young man, unver- 
ified to be sure, but still ugly enough to make 
him dislike the present announcement ; but there 
was a frankness, yet reserve and dignity, about 
Thornbury, which almost convinced Mr. Dojere 
that the rumors must be false. Perhaps, after 
all, it would be better to trust the word of a 
man, whom he had always found honorable in 
business, and disbelieve the rumors. Alice was, 
it may be, the very woman who might fill Albert’s 
ideal, and if so, what arrangement could be nicer, 
both socially and financially? He would dismiss 
the matter altogether, as love affairs were not in 
his line anyhow. 

Yet, those rumors. And Mr. Dojere walked 
thoughtfully home. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ She loved me for the dangers I had passed • 

And I loved her that she did pity them.” 

“ Men do their broken weapons rather use, 

Than their bare hands.” 

Several weeks had passed, since the night, 
when Mr. Dojere had walked slowly homeward, 
pondering the probability of closer relations be- 
tween his partner and his beloved daughter, and 
during these weeks, Albert had certainly improved 
in the estimation of his senior. His graceful man- 
ners, his culture and good taste, and, in partic- 
ular, his excellent methods in business, pleased 
the elder man, and, the more he began to know 
of him, the more he found himself liking him. 

No partners ever got on better together. The 
blunt, outspoken man of hard sense and the 
gentleman of accomplishments and real business 
ability found in each other the qualities which, 
while not, perhaps, alike or congenial, made each 
respect the other and like him for the worth 


I 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 21 

which was in him. Albert took care of their 
outside interests, and Mr. Dojere guarded the 
business which was managed at the desk, each 
one knowing that the other was better fitted than 
himself for his share of the work. The firm of 
Dojere & Co. was, in a word, working harmo- 
niously and prosperously. Thornbury was every- 
where, in the city and out, and always busy. Mr. 
Dojere was always at his desk in the corner of 
their building, from 9 o’clock in the morning 
until 4 o’clock in the afternoon. 

Albert had taken rooms in a good hotel, and 
his bachelor quarters were such as the most 
fastidious gentleman of taste would have been 
unable to criticise. He had hunted up a few 
of his old chums, who were living in the city, 
and was beginning to be well known in society. 

At the house of Mr. Dojere he was always 
welcome, Mrs. Dojere having taken a great fancy 
to him, and Alice — well, there was no evidence 
yet to warrant the assertion that Alice thought 
him anything more than a very agreeable person. 
They went to theatres together, and she was 
often seen riding with him in his neat buggy 
through the park, or sauntering by his side along 


V 


22 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


the fashionable streets on a pleasant afternoon. 
No one could say that Alice was in love, but of 
Albert much might have been said, had the gos- 
sips known all that he could have told them. 

O Gossip, thou most villainous of all villains, 
thou intangible, impersonal, yet ever-present, 
always existing bane of society, what epithet can 
I apply to thee which shall contain enough hen- 
bane and other noxious poisons, metaphorically 
speaking, to fitly qualify thee ? Thou blackener 
of the good, thou smircher of the innocent, thou 
coward of cowards, polluter alike of thy victim 
and thine agent, Heaven pity the man with a 
past, the woman with a fault, if they ever get 
within thy foul clutches ! Rather, a thousand 
times, would I be falsely accused before the 
harshest tribunal of the land, than that my name 
and honor should fall under thy notice, thou 
wretched and seldom punished sinner against the 
goodness of mankind, thou sneaking accuser, 
judge and jury of us all, trying cases without 
warrant, rendering verdicts without evidence, con- 
demning without right or reason ! 

Had the gossips known. But they did not 
know. Albert Thornbury’s past was three thou- 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


23 


sand miles away, in that great burial-ground of 
many pasts, London, and he knew that it could 
not follow him to America. It was an unpleas- 
ant past, but, after all, it was not so bad as it 
might have been, and Was not nearly so bad as 
that “other past” of which he had almost ceased 
to think at all, knowing that “ that,” at any rate, 
could never come back. This later past had 
worried him sometimes, but it could not trouble 
him now, for it had been left behind. 

Ah, could he have known that, instead of being 
left behind, it had preceded him to America, 
what an annoyance it might have become ! Not 
that it would have troubled him much, had it not 
been for Alice, in whom he was rapidly finding 
the something for which he had always yearned, 
and which, never before, had come to him. In 
Alice he thought that he saw a prospect of that 
supremest of all happinesses, which can come to 
such a man as he — a refined, high-bred lady- 
wife. Other loves he had known in his life 
abroad, but not such love as this might be. The 
loves of the past were not the kind to satisfy the 
desires of this refined gentleman, with his aes- 
thetic tastes and courtly manners ; they were but 


24 ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

freaks of foolish youth, and now, in his manhood, 
he realized what they really were. 

Could he have left them undone, he would 
gladly have done so; but he was well out of them 
now, and why should they trouble him ? “ Be 

sure your sin will find you out ; ” he had heard 
this often, had even applied it, to fit the case of 
a poor defaulting clerk, whom he had caught m 
the act, and afterwards forgiven out of tender- 
ness of heart. He had told this young man to 
remember the injunction, but to apply it to him- 
self had never seemed an appropriate thing to 
do. And he was right : his sins would never 
find him out, and why should they? He was' 
truly penitent and intended to sin no more; and, 
surely, the little sins of his youth might be 
allowed to remain as they were, since he meant to 
so sin never again, and was, in general, a noble- 
intentioned fellow, who would be of more good 
than harm in the world. Could he have seen 
the future, with what terrible force would the 
words have rung in his ears. But no one ever 
foresees the outcome of his deeds; and so we 
proceed, in the belief that our sins, at least, 
are safely housed in oblivion. There is no writ- 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


25 


ing on the wall, even in an unknown tongue, to 
warn us, and we go fearlessly on, until the storm 
bursts, and then we wonder why we should be 
thus harshly used by Fate. 

The summer days were come and the Do j ere 
family were gone ; that is, they were comfortably 
housed, in their cottage, at Long Branch. Mr. 
Dojere was with them at night, but he spent his 
days in the office, for to do nothing was not to 
his liking. 

Albert was, part of the time, at the Branch, 
and had become one of the lions of the place, 
especially in the estimation of certain ladies, 
themselves settled, who would have been pleased 
to see their daughters settled also — that is, if the 
“ catch ” were a good one. But their angling 
was unsuccessful, so far as Albert was con- 
cerned. He would not “ bite ; ” and Alice, who 
had, by this time, discovered that she liked 
him very well, found herself wondering when he 
would declare himself ; for she knew now, by the 
subtle instinct of womanhood, that Albert loved 
her. 

Once, indeed, he had almost done so. They 
had been riding, in the dusk, along the beach. 


26 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


and had driven back, later, into the country, 
away from the lights and display, which make 
the Branch a pleasant place for those who are 
in love, but not retired enough for those who 
wish to hear the thrilling words of love’s first 
outspeakings, and he had become very tender. 
They were, in fact, talking of marriage. 

“ Do you really think that fidelity in marriage, 
once established, is sure to remain through all 
changes of time and circumstance ? ” he said. 

“ I think that must depend upon the way in 
which the fidelity is obtained,” said Alice. “ Of 
course, I cannot speak for others, with certainty. 
I think that, for myself, if I once really loved a 
husband, I never could become unfaithful to him 
in any way ; and, by faithful, I mean more than 
is meant in the words of the ordinary service. I 
mean faithful to my belief in his goodness, his 
love for me, his purity of soul, in all that is of 
him — in short, I know of but one thing which 
could ever turn me from a man I truly loved. 

If I should ever find that he had lied to me 

that he had deceived me in his wooing — that, I 
think, would turn my heart against him. He 
might commit sins against another ; I would go 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


21 


with him even to the gallows ; but if I knew that 
he had lied to me, I could no longer trust him,, 
and I know not what I might do. Anything is 
preferable to a marriage born of a lie.” 

“ I agree with you, Alice,” said he. “ There is 
nothing which will kill affection like a lie. I 
know it from experience, and the silent sorrow 
of those whom I know to be suffering from the 
curse of a discovered lie, is to me one of the 
most touching sorrows of 'earth. To know that 
the one being who is dearer than all the universe, 
to whom we have given our whole trust, in whose 
keeping we have deposited our happiness, has 
been to us a living lie, is to know that which 
wears out the heart and crushes the soul. Happy 
is the man who has escaped this torment.” 

His voice trembled and he- spoke with a fer- 
vor which touched his hearer, like the confession 
of a soul-sick penitent. 

Alice found herself wondering what his past 
life might have been, and whether he might not 
be speaking from his own experience, so bitterly 
did his words sound. 

He continued, “ It is the hardest of sorrows to 
bear, for one must bear it in silence. The hus- 


28 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


band who has been deceived by a false wife can 
hope for no relief in confidence with another. 
He cannot ask the woman, whom he later finds 
to be the one being necessary to his happi- 
ness, to be his wife, for, if she knows the truth 
she will not have him, and if he tells her not, he 
is a liar, and sooner or later she may find it 
out, and ruin will come to both. Her confidence 
he dares not invite, so he suffers in silence, and 
sees the paradise which may never be his, as 
Moses gazed upon the promised land, wherein 
he might never dwell.” 

“ But,” said Alice, “ supposing that he should 
find a woman willing to hear his tale, and with 
heart large enough and faith sufficient to share 
his past sorrow with him, one who, knowing all, 
could not be deceived as to the past, would he 
not then be doing right in wedding her, provided 
she was in all respects what he really loved?” 

“ If she would but listen to him, yes. But, 
Alice, where is such a woman to be found? A 
woman willing, for the sake of love and right, 
to bear the stinging tongue of gossip, the averted 
eye, the aside remark, and all else that the world 
inflicts upon the unfortunate ?” 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


29 


“I do not know,” said she, “but it seems to 
me that I, loving as I must love the man to 
whom I give myself, would bear all this and more, 
should he find me worthy of him.” 

Albert was almost at the point of telling her 
how he loved her. A minute more and the fatal 
moment would have come — fatal to her as well 
as to him. But a carriage approached just then, 
and in it were Mrs. Vanderhoof and her daugh- 
ter, society people at the Branch, who bowed po- 
litely to Albert and his companion, who returned 
the salutation as the carriage passed. 

The spell was broken and Alice was saved. 
Would that the omen had been heeded. Would 
that Albert had seen, in the interruption of his 
intention, the warning, and, remembering the in- 
junction, “ Be sure your sin will find you out,” 
had dismissed marriage, forever, from his thoughts. 
Would that he had prayed from the bottom of 
his heart, “deliver us from evil,” “lead us not 
into temptation.” 


CHAPTER V. 


“ Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart ; 

’Tis woman’s whole existence.” 

“ A change came o’er the spirit of my dream — 

The wanderer was alone as heretofore, 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, compassed round 
With hatred and contention.” 

“ In the midst of life we are in death." In our 
moments of supremest joy, when all nature seems 
to be kind to us, and when care seems to be but 
a phantom of the past, then it is, that grim Fate 
suddenly presents herself, and, holding the cup 
of hemlock to our lips, bids us drink it to the 
dregs. Icarus, joyously parting the cool ether 
of morning with his waxen wings, realizes not, 
that, at the rising of the Sun, his wings will melt 
from his shoulders, and he and his transient 
pleasure be dashed into the sea. Paris, bearing 
away in triumph the captive Helen, little thinks 
that he is soon to see his city in ashes, and the 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


31 


sword of vengeance hanging above his head. 
Caesar little expected to receive, as the climax of 
his conquests, the merciless thrusts of Brutus’ 
cold steel ; and Abraham Lincoln, after spend- 
ing the best years of his life in working for the 
welfare of his fellow men, little thought that the 
end of it all, for him, would be the assassin’s 
bullet. Close upon pleasure comes pain ; joy 
cometh in the morning, but, at evening, the winds 
rise and the storm-clouds burst. Such is the ex- 
perience of a majority of mankind. 

Albert Thornbury was intoxicated with love. 
At last he had found the peerless woman, who 
would be his wife. A woman highly cultivated, 
noble in soul, pure in heart, and free from the 
pruderies which disgust a man of sense, and 
wiser, in her eighteen years of life than most 
women in their matronage. She could be won ; 
he knew it. All that remained was to ask her to 
be his wife, and his happiness would be secure. 

The dark, shadow which hung over his past, 
should trouble him no more. She would hear 
his story and love him better for .it. He would 
not marry her with a lie upon his lips; that was 
a thing against which his whole nature revolted. 


32 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


She would know all, and she would love him. 
He had found the priceless jewel at last, “the 
one virtuous woman,” and the past should be 
forever sealed. 

Filled with these delicious dreams, he walked 
alone upon the sands at midnight, enjoying the 
calm solitude of the sea. 

He did not notice a person, who had followed 
him, in the darkness, until, as he turned in his 
course, he came face to face with her. The fig- 
ure stepped in front of him to get his attention, 
and, throwing back its hood, gazed upon him 
with a pair of magnificent dark eyes. The face 
was pale and somewhat careworn, but, neverthe- 
less, beautiful. 

Albert stopped, transfixed by the sight of this 
woman risen from the dead. “ His hair stood 
erect and his voice stuck in his throat.’* The 
woman did not address him at once, but gazed 
fixedly into his face. At last, his voice came to 
him, and a groan of anguish escaped his lips. 
The woman shuddered, and, after a moment’s 
pause, spoke. 

“Are you not even a little bit glad to see 
me?” she said. “Not even enough to say that 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


33 


you wish me no evil, further than that I have 
brought upon myself.” She paused for a reply, 
but none came. “Oh, Albert,” she added, in a 
more humble tone, “have you not even a feel- 
ing of pity for me ? You loved me dearly once. 
Surely, you can, at least, pity me.” 

Albert spoke: “Pity you. Yes; but what 
brings you here from the grave, in which you 
were laid, ten years ago ? Surely you can not 
be the person you seem. She is dead : dead ten 
years.” 

“I know you thought me dead, Albert,” said 
the woman,” but I am not. I have been near 
you all these ten years, but did not dare let you 
know it, fearing your terrible anger, and yearn- 
ing for your love.” % * 

“ My love, Cora. My love ! Is it thus you 
speak of that, which you held light as gossamer, 
selling it and my honor for a worthless bauble, 
cheapening it in the sight of men, and damning 
it in the sight of God. Woman, talk not to me 
of your yearning for my love.” 

“But you did love me,” pleaded the woman. 

“Aye, I loved you,” he replied bitterly, “loved 
you with the mad feverishness of my youth, pic- 


34 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


tured you a saint, when you were a devil, wor- 
shipped your beauty as priceless, when it could 
have been purchased with a trinket, loved your 
presence as that of an angel, when it was as 
baneful as the fatal aconite which the ignorant 
traveler plucks on the hillside. Loved you ! 
Yes, God knows I loved you, and he alone knows 
how much you valued it ! ” 

“Your words are severe, but not unjust,” said 
the woman. “ All that you say that I did, I have 
done ; and I have met you, to-night, i-n order to 
tell you more than you already know, and to 
plead for mercy, at your feet. I know that you 
will hear me, for you were always a just man.” 

“Speak on.” 

“ I won’t detain you long, Albert,” she said. 
“ You thought that I was dead, and I intended 
to have you think so. From the hour that I fled 
from your home, with that villain, I was sorry 
for the sin I had committed. Oh, believe me, 
Albert, when I say that I am now telling you 
the truth. You thought I had dishonored you, 
but that was not so. It might have been so, but 
God, in his mercy, prevented it. In our flight 
we started for France, and, during the ride to 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 35 

Dover, I had time to think over what I was about 
to do, and to repent in time. Believe me, Albert, 
I am telling the truth. At Dover, I left the 
Count. In the crowd, at the station, I slipped 
away from him, and fled, fled as for my very 
life, and, from that day to this, I have never seen 
him. I was saved from dishonor, but not from 
disgrace, and I knew that you would not forgive 
me, nor even hear me, should I return. All these 
long years, I have waited, hoping that I might 
find opportunity to tell you all, and be forgiven, 
for I have loved you, all these years, as only a 
self-ruined woman can love the noble husband, 
whom she has wantonly wronged — but the oppor- 
tunity never came. To-night I have found cour- 
age to face you and to plead my cause. If you 
would only believe me, Albert, all might be 
mended in this new country. I loved you so 
much that I desired you to think me dead, but 
my heart yearns so, to be loved by you again, 
that I can not, oh I can not, let you go ! I 
caused the publication of the notice of my death, 
that you might see it, and not suffer on my 
account.” 

“ May the Curse df Almighty 6od be upon' you, 


36 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


for that deed ! ” came slowly and wrathfully from 
the man’s lips. 

“ Oh, Albert, curse me not ! Have I not cursed 
myself enough already? Is it not enough, thaF 
all these years, I should suffer alone, in anguish 
of heart? I have known want, poverty, distress, 
cold, hunger and thirst, the barrenness of the 
unloved heart, the carking care of loving you 
in my sin-sick soul with a love, I could not kill. 
I never loved Count Miguel. It was but a mo- 
mentary fit of insanity, and, wrongfully as I acted, 
I checked myself in time to save your honor. 
God knows, I do not seek to condone my own 
offence, but, oh Albert, the expiation has been 
long and terrible, and I can bear it no more ! 
Kill me here, on these sands, beside the great 
water, but tell me that your love is not all dead, 
that I may hope for some ray of light, after this 
terrible penance. Can you not forgive me, and 
let me hope that you will take me back ? ” 

“ I can forgive you, but I can never love you 
again.” 

A piteous moan came from the woman’s lips 
and she fell before him, upon her knees. Albert 
looked at her. Yes, she was very beautiful — 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


37 


more beautiful, perhaps, than Alice. Ah ! there 
it was ; Alice. He could not help telling him- 
self that, had this woman returned sooner, she 
might have been successful in her endeavors to 
win him back. But Alice now held his heart. 

“ Albert, is this all that I can hope for ? Is 
the sin, which was only in intention, never to be 
wiped out ? Can you not tell me that you will 
try to love me again ? I care not what you do 
to me, if you will but take me back to your 
heart. I’ll work for you, live only for you ; I’ll 
be your slave — anything — for, as God is my wit- 
ness, here, in the solitude of the night, I love 
you, as women seldom love. Oh, husband, take 
me back to your heart ! ” 

“I can not.” 

She groveled at his feet, in anguish of re- 
morse and despair; she prayed, alternately, to God 
and to this man, to give her back the heart, 
which she had thrown away, — but all in vain. 
Love her he did, at one time, but now he loved 
Alice, and there was no room in his heart for 
this other. He did not doubt her story. He 
believed her to be telling the truth, and he 
hated her for it. She was his wife, and no law 


38 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


could rid him of her. A year ago he would, no 
doubt, have taken her back, but his heart had 
no room for her now. She had come too late. 

He left her groveling, in her wretchedness, on 
the shore of the sea, and disappeared in the 
darkness, cursing the fate which had thus turned 
his nectar into gall, his paradise into a hell. He 
never gave one pitying thought to the creature, 
who lay prostrate upon the sand, writhing in her 
anguish, and calling upon Heaven to witness, that 
she had told the truth. 

She had, it is true, done him a wrong ; but 
was it so bad a deed, as never to be forgiven 
or condoned ? Such is often the lot of woman. 
Caesar said, “ The wife of Caesar must be above 
suspicion ; ” and was this to mean that, in the 
case of this woman, the punishment for not being 
above suspicion, was to be as great as that 
meted out to the gross offender, who. has sinned 
without repentance ? Her sin had been repented 
of, and left uncommitted. It was only a thought 
of sin. Yet she was to suffer all the penalty of 
the sin, and never to see hope of forgiveness. 
Her fate indeed was hard. She did not know 
why it was that her husband could not love her 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 39 

again. She \did not know that another had taken 
the place, which had been vacant for ten long 
years, and which, but for that other, might have 
become her place again. She did not know that 
she had come too late. Pity her, all you who 
are not so sodden with worldliness, or over-filled 
with false saintliness, that you cannot pity, but 
only judge, the fallen; pity her, for she is worthy 
of your commiseration. Her sin has been small, 
her punishment is terrible, — -because she is a 


woman. 


CHAPTER VI. 


“ A wife is like an unknown sea; 

Least known to him who thinks he knows 
Where all the shores of promise he. 

Where lie the islands of repose, 

And where the rocks that he must flee.” 

\ ' 

“ The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, 

He called for his candle, his bell and his book ! 

* * * * * * 

Never was heard such a terrible curse. 

But, what gave rise 
To no little surprise. 

Nobody seemed a penny the worse ! ” 

The thoughts, which were the companions of 
Albert Thornbury in his room, that night, must 
remain unrecorded. The return, as from the 
dead, of that woman, his wife, had awakened all 
the memories of the past, and set his thoughts 
going backward over his life, as he had believed 
they never could again. 

His was the case of many, the case of a young 
man who had made a mistake. Loving, with the 
unquestioning ardor of youth, he had married 
Cora Tate. Captivated by her houri-like beauty, 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


41 


and the charm of her voice, heard for the first 
time in the opera, and often afterwards in the 
drawing-room, he had made her his wife. Their 
union had been peaceful, until the business cares 
of the London house of Dojere & Co. had taken 
so much of his time, that he could not be her 
constant companion, and she had unwisely begun 
to accuse him of neglecting her. Matters went 
from bad to worse, the presence of the dashing 
Count Miguel, a gray-haired sinner who had 
taken a passing fancy for Cora, aiding much to 
bring about a rupture between husband and wife; 
until, one night, stung by her sharp tongue, 
Albert had lowered himself from his dignity to 
say that which should have been left unsaid, 
and, that night, Cora left his home, and he had 
never again heard of her until he saw the an- 
nouncement of her death in the newspapers. 
Then he was touched with a feeling of regret 
that he had been so hasty with his wife, for he 
felt that a little forbearance might have kept her 
his own, and now that she was dead, he loved 
her more than ever. He had always cherished 
in his memory a tender recollection of her, as 
she was, when his bride, and he felt that he 


42 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


might have even forgiven her, had she returned 
to him penitent. 

He intended never to marry again. But she 
was dead. Ten years had elapsed since he had 
seen her, and men forget much in ten years, par- 
ticularly in matters of love. So, in falling in 
with Alice, it was not strange that he should 
find that he had changed ,his mind, and might 
become a husband once more. 

In Alice he had found something superior to 
that which had charmed him in Cora, a soul 
akin with his own in thought, a mind refined 
and cultured like his own, and his love for her 
had become the great passion of his life ; for it 
is possible, let po x ets say what they may, that a 
man may love with a deeper passion at middle 
age than in early life. It is not always in youth 
that one finds the wife who is to be to him the 
partner whom his manhood will desire. The 
pretty girl who seems to him at twenty an angel 
of beauty, may fall far short of filling his crav- 
ings at forty. What does youth know of the 
aims, ambitions, tastes and hopes of manhood ? 
Can he be certain that the girl, so beautiful in 
her ball-dress, so sweet at the picnic, so lovely 


f 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


43 


in the first months, perhaps years, of married life, 
when all is bright, when cares are few and am- 
bition is a thing unknown, will be the helpmate 
of his sterner years, the sharer of his cares and 
ambitions, the confidant of his purposes and 
hopes ? Does he not often find, as the years go 
on, that the angel whom he thought so noble, 
has, after all, but the minimum of a soul, the 
semblance of an intellect, that she is no more 
capable of understanding his mind than a child, 
that she can have no sympathy with him in his 
life-work, and no interest in his ambitions be- 
yond that expressed by bread-and-butter, or, per- 
haps, by display and fine clothes? How many 
men find it worth their while to try to interest 
their wives in their business, profession, or what- 
ever it may be that is the life of their living, the 
food of their body and mind ? Many do, at the 
start, no doubt, but how many are they, who, 
finding no responsive chord there, give up the 
hopeless task and go their way alone. Their 
name is legion. The man comes home burdened 
with the cares of his profession or trade ; he has 
won his case, his article has been accepted, he 
has at last completed that machine which is to 


44 ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

revolutionize a branch of industry, he has con- 
quered that stubborn case of sickness — in a word, 
with the one thing which makes life grander 
than mere existence, fresh in his mind, and tells* 
his wife of his success. It may be that heavy 
cares are upon his aching mind, which he had de- 
termined to lay aside for the time, while he tells 
her only of his good fortune. He tells her all 
about it, with the declamatory ardor of an ex- 
alted soul. “Yes, dear,” she says, “it’s very 
nice ; but I do wish that Sara might have a new 
cloak; the one she is wearing is positively shabby; 
and, by the way, the plumber called for his money 
to-day,” or she responds with some equally high- 
toned and agreeable thing. And this is all he 
gets, and all he ever will get. She has lost her 
charm. She has not grown any during all these 
years of life, while he has gone far ahead. She 
may have been too much burdened with children 
and cares, to have had time for improvement, 
but the fact remains. She is not his companion, 
she can never be. He has made a mistake. 

In Alice, Albert had found a mind, akin to his 
own. She was much younger in years than he, 
to be sure, but she had what the girl at the pic- 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


45 


nic has not. At eighteen she had become well 
educated and knew as much as he did, with his 
seven and thirty years, of those things, which 
broaden the understanding, and make further 
development a matter of course. She was a fit 
companion for his manhood, and he loved her — 
loved her as men love, who have made mistakes, 
and have learned to profit by them, knowing the 
difference between painted and solid substances, 
the difference between eyes that merely sparkle 
with beauty, and eyes behind which lies a culti- 
vated mind, knowing the difference between 
school-girl tattle and conversation, between soci- 
ety polish and a developed intellect. He loved 
her and had made up his mind to marry her, 
when, like a change of scene in a pantomime, 
appeared the wife of the past ; and the wife of 
the future, the wife for whom his heart yearned, 
began to vanish out of sight, and the vision of 
what might have been was all that he had re- 
maining. Cursed by a mistake, like thousands of 
others, he read his doom, and it both saddened 
and maddened him. 

When the morning came, Alice received a note 
from him, telling her that he had been compelled 


46 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


to go to the city on business and enclosing his 
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Dojere. 

“Business?” said Mr. Dojere, “I don’t know 
what business could call him off like that. Le’me 
see, le’me see,” puffing out his cheeks and snap- 
ping his fingers, “there is nothing at the office 
to call him. Hum, ho ! I say, Alice,” added the 
old man, winking at her, ‘ couldn’t you post us 
as to the cause of his absence ? ” 

Alice blushed at the blunt remark, and made 
answer in the negative, so plainly, and with such 
evident truthfulness, that Mr. Dojere was con- 
vinced that he had made a mistake, so he 
dropped the matter, and, after breakfast, went to 
the city himself. 

Mr. Dojere was right. There was no business 
which should call Albert to town that day. Alice 
wondered, that morning, what it could be, which 
had taken him so suddenly away. The thought 
that he had told an untruth, even a little one, 
such as the letter might contain, never entered 
her head. After hearing his opinion of liars, 
last night, she could not think that he would 
lie, even in so small a way as that. He could 
not lie, So the girl decided to wait for expla- 


47 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN.' 

nations, until he should be ready to give them, 
a method of disposing of a doubt, which it would 
be well for most people to adopt, and to amuse 
herself for the day, by a visit to some friends 
farther down the beach. 

Mr. Dojere bothered his brains, not a little, 
over Albert’s sudden whim, as he called it, being 
always, more or less, interested in other folk’s 
business as well as his own, and not having any 
of his own to trouble him, just then. This was 
a failing of Mr. Dojere. He was opinionated, 
stubborn, quick to £orm judgments, and “pokey” 
as the New Englanders term it, although good- 
hearted and just at bottom. And if there was 
any one thing which Mr. Dojere did dislike 
more than another, it was mystery. So he both- 
ered his brains. He knew that there was no 
business, which could call Albert away; but, when 
he arrived at his office, he found that there was 
some business, which was not part of that laid 
out in his day-book of “matters to be attended 
to,” something which made the old man thor- 
oughly angry, and made him very unpleasant com- 
pany for the clerks. During the night, the place 
had been robbed, and a quantity of fine laces, 


48 


ALICE ; OR, THE wages of sin. 

just imported, were gone. No one knew how it 
happened, and Mr. Dojere was excited and 
angry. 

Albert, who was there before Mr. Dojere, had 
been investigating the matter, but without suc- 
cess. The goods were gone, and that was all 
that was known about it. Mr. Dojere was in 
a state of mind, which would have found relief 
in discharging every man in the place, but, not 
being quite fool enough to do that, he “ went 
for ” Albert, as the boys say, in his blunt- 
est style, with a subject which had nothing what- 
ever to do with the robbery. * 

“ Say, Thornbury,” said he, “ what did you want 
to go off last night in such a fashion as that for, 
and then send a lying note about it ? ” 

Albert never became angry, when Mr. Dojere 
was mad. He merely looked at his partner, and 
although his face flushed with anger at the in- 
sult, he made no reply whatever, but took up his 
hat and left the room. 

“ Hum !” said the old man, “ fine set of fellows 
I’ve got ’round here. Le’me tell you, there’s 
got to be an improvement in this place before 
long, or I’ll know why.” 


49 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

And he settled himself down for a day of first- 
class dudgeon, and a day of sorry hard-times for 
the clerks, who could not afford, like Albert, to 
take their hats and leave, until the storm should 
have passed. 

Albert went about, during the day, thinking 
much over his strange predicament and cruel 
fate. He loved her and knew that she loved 
him. In fact he had already shown her, he 
feared, that he loved her, and she would expect 
a fuller declaration from him, soon. Should he 
tell her the truth, the whole truth, and trust her 
nobility of mind to judge him fairly? It would 
be a hard thing to do. To tell the woman, to 
whom he had only half-proposed, that the reason 
he could not marry her was that he was already 
married. Had he any warrant for telling her 
this? Perhaps not; but, on the other hand, he 
knew that she would expect something from him. 
He could not bear the thought of having her 
believe him a male-flirt, that most contemptible 
of all two-legged creatures. What to do he did 
not know. He could not flee altogether. So- 
ciety would gossip. He was in sore distress, but 
he made up his mind to do one thing anyhow. 


50 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

He would return to the Branch, and let things 
take their own course. 

Better would it have been for him, had he de- 
cided to face the gossips’ fire. Better a thousand 
times, had he fled forever from the land. But 
who ever knows what is best for him, in this 
world of doubts and dilemmas ? And Albert was 
but one of us, a mortal, with all a mortal’s lia- 
bility to err in judgment. He returned to the 
Branch, and took up his quarters, explaining his 
letter to Alice, by stating that his business was 
finished, and she had too much sense to care to 
ask, what might have been the nature of his sud- 
den call. It was a lie which he had told her, a 
lie indefinite, but none the less a lie. Oh man ! 
how well thou canst preach ! How poorly dost 
thou practice ! 


CHAPTER VII. 


“ Gold! gold! gold! gold ! 

Bright and yellow, hard and cold, 

Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old, 

To the very verge of the churchyard mold; 

Price of many a crime untold ; 

Gold ! gold ! gold ! gold ! ” 

u Go from me. Yet feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
Alone upon the threshhold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul.” 

Isaac Rosenbaum was in his shop. Not that 
Isaac was ever to be found anywhere else, 
but in his shop, or that he was ever known to 
go out of it, but Isaac was in his shop, and what 
is more to our interest, he had in his shop with 
him, two things, which are to figure in our story. 
Isaac bad many other things in his shop. He 
had one of the finest collections of real bric-a- 
brac, in the city ; he had everything in the deco- 
rative art line of goods, from a broken tea-pot 
of, it might be, pre-Adamite times (at least he 


52 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


would have so dated it, if, by so doing, he could 
have made it sell) to a modern twenty-five-cents- 
by-the-yard oil painting ; he had stores of clothes, 
ancient and modern ; he had weapons enough, 
and of styles sufficient, to have equipped any 
thing from a knight templar to a St. Patrick’s 
parade-day marshal ; he had a wealth of old iron, 
brass, copper and lead ; he had bottles and Bibles, 
linen and leather, pewter and porcelain, silk and 
shoddy, pipes and pistols, muslins and machinery ; 
and he also had diamonds and rubies, silver and 
gold. In short, Isaac -Rosenbaum was one of 
that most shrewd yet ignorant, untasteful yet dis- 
criminating, dirty, “ low-down,” much sought, and 
everywhere abused, class of men, a Chatham street 
pawn-broker. Isaac was very old, nobody knew 
how old, for he had been in that shop, as long 
as anybody thereabout could remember. His 
form was bent and shrunk by age, his beard was 
long and as white as snow, and the eyes, which 
shone from beneath his shaggy gray brows were 
piercing and black, and cunning, with the alert- 
ness of wary old age. 

Isaac was not attending to business on this 
night, when we first make his acquaintance. He 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


53 


was doing something which he had done, time 
and time again, during eighteen years ; he was 
reading a letter, the same letter which he had 
read over and over, for eighteen years, wonder- 
ing if the time would ever come, when this let- 
ter could be converted into the only value which 
it, or anything else, had in his eyes, — money. 
He had kept this letter a long time, hoping to 
find its owner ; not with any intention of deliver- 
ing it, because it was the proper thing to do so, 
but, in the hope, that the unknown owner might 
be glad to get possession of it, by paying a 
good price. Isaac knew little, almost nothing, 
concerning the letter, but he knew enough to 
see money in it for Isaac. The contents of the 
letter awakened, in his heart, no feeling of senti- 
ment for the writer or the other parties mentioned 
in it, but he often read it over, probably, at first, 
in a vain search for a clue to its mission of use- 
fulness for him, and now, more from habit than 
anything else. It was the first piece of busi- 
ness which had never proved to be lucrative, 
and he was not satisfied to have it remain so 
long unproductive. He felt as if he were being 
swindled. 


/ 


54 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


A shadow darkened the doorway of the dirty 
shop, and a woman entered noiselessly, but quickly. 
Isaac, seeing a customer, laid the letter upon 
the counter, and, for the first time in his life, 
forgot that he had not returned it to its hiding- 
place. The errand of the woman was a common 
enough one, yet Isaac, venerable flint-heart though 
he was, could not help but notice that this 
customer was very beautiful. He had had many 
beautiful customers before, but not one who 
seemed so beautiful as this creature. She laid a 
ring upon the counter and simply said “ How 
much ? ” The old man took the trinket (he 
could have shown her many more like it in his 
safe, all pledges of that love which is said to 
endure until death) and, turning about, threw it 
into a scale, weighing it with care. 

As the woman stood there waiting, her eye 
fell upon the letter which lay upon the counter, 
and she caught a name written there. The 
thought was quick as the glance, and, not know- 
ing, really, why she did it, she softly took the 
letter and hid it in her dress. Isaac made her 
an offer for the ring, a villainously meagre price 
she knew, but she took the money and hurriedly 
left the shop. 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


55 


The rage of ten thousand demons, robbed of 
a sinner’s soul, could scarcely equal that of 
Isaac, when, a moment later, he perceived that 
his letter had been stolen. What is there more 
indignant than a plundered thief? Isaac had 
been robbed. He knew it at once : knew that 
the woman had stolen his letter, the letter which 
he had carefully guarded eighteen years, the 
letter which was to fill his coffers, at small cost, 
the one investment, which had never yet proved 
productive. She had taken it, and, going beyond 
the truth, he, at once, inferred that she had 
come for the purpose of taking it. His wrath 
and terror were pitiable, although worthy of con- 
tempt. The Jew had been out- Jewed. The 
usurer had been “ taken in and done for.” 
Isaac felt so wroth that he closed the place, an 
hour before time, that night. 

While Isaac was venting his impotent wrath 
upon the senseless old garments, which draped 
the walls of the den behind his shop, the woman, 
whose wedding ring he had just taken in pawn, 
was reading, with eager eyes and blanched face, 
the letter which she had stolen. She had taken 
it, in a sudden impulse, born of the sight of two 


56 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


words, which had drawn her attention to it, and, 
now that she had made out its contents, she was 
filled with many conflicting emotions. This letter 
would be of value to “ him,” perhaps ; that it 
was intended by the writer to be sent to him, 
there could be no doubt in her mind. It told 
him that which he did not know, and which he 
ought to know, and it also told her that, which 
made her heart sick and her brain reel. Of a 
naturally jealous temperament, she hated a rival, 
even in imagination, and this letter told of one 
who might be a rival in reality, a rival widening 
the gap between herself and that almost hopeless 
goal, which she had suffered penance ten years 
to reach. This was one aspect of the case, as 
presented by the inferences, which she drew 
from the letter. But there was also another sug- 
gested to her by this stolen letter. It might be 
that this, instead of weakening her cause with 
her husband, could be made to strengthen it. 
If she could only trace out the mystery, which 
the letter showed was yet to be solved, might it 
not be, that Albert, in his gratitude to her, for 
her unselfish love and willingness to condone 
his past offences, would love her once more and 
take her again to his Jieart ? 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


57 


A wild throb of hope leaped in this woman’s 
breast, at the thought. She was not a bad woman, 
as women go, merely a shallow one, but, unlike 
most shallow women, capable of powerful passion 
and great love. Perhaps, she thought, this letter 
might be made to work for her own welfare, and 
win back her lost husband. She resolved not 
to deliver the letter at once, but to solve its 
mystery herself, and then go to him with it, and 
plead at his feet. Little did she think, what the 
result of her search would reveal, and little did 
she dream of the terrible denouement, in which 
this hidden tragedy would end. 

“ Whom the gods would destroy they first 
make mad.” Better would it have been had 
they destroyed Cora Tate in the madness of her 
love, before she could have obtained that letter. 

The more old Isaac thought over the theft of 
the letter, the more uneasy he became. So long 
as he kept the letter in his possession he had 
nothing to fear, but, now that it had fallen into 
the hands of an unknown person, and one who, 
he believed, knew more about it than he, his fear 
of punishment (an apology for conscience ’in 
him, as in many other folk) began to be very 


58 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


disagreeable. Knowing so much, yet so little, 
concerning this letter, he could form no concep- 
tion of what the result of its loss might be to 
himself. He had intended to make capital of 
the letter, if opportunity should ever come, but 
he never had had any intention of letting it go 
out of his hands, until he had made himself se- 
cure. The shrewd old rascal had been outwit- 
ted, and this letter, stolen in the dead of the 
night, from a corpse,, years before — this letter, 
which he had been detaining, in the hope that 
it might be the means of bringing him gain, 
through the misery of others, was, perhaps, to 
bring danger to him and gain to another. Old 
Isaac was in a quandary. He enjoyed a mys- 
tery, provided it was no mystery to him, and he 
held the solution in his hands; but he had seri- 
ous objections to being a part of an unsolved 
problem. Isaac, for the first time in many years, 
was afraid. “Thus conscience (or an apology 
for it) doth make cowards of us all.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“ Had it pleased Heaven ' 

To try me with affliction; had he rained 

All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head; 

Steeped me in poverty to the very lips; 

Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes; 

I should have found in some part of my soul 
A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me 
A fixed figure, for the time of scorn 
To point his slow unmoving finger at ! — ” 

” I have given suck, and know 
How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me: 

I would, while it was smiling in my face, 

Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums, 

And dashed the brains out, had I so sworn as you 
Have done to this.” 

Mr. Dojere was up to his eyes in business. 
Thornbury had been much at the Branch, and 
was supposed to be enjoying Alice’s company. 
He certainly was in her company much of the 
time, but a reader of his inner life, if such a 
reader could have been found, would have found 
it difficult to assert that he was enjoying him- 
self. His was an infatuation, which boded no 
good to himself, or to Alice. Loving her madly, 
yet knowing that he must never let it be known, 


GO 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


yearning for the boon which could never become 
his, he hovered about her, 'like the moth about 
the candle-flame, differing from the moth, in that 
he knew his danger, yet, like the moth, unable to 
break away from the fatal brightness. He lin- 
gered about her, loving her in silence, yet think- 
ing to avoid doing harm; and Alice loved him — 
loved him as only women of the highest type 
can love. 

The time wore on, and Mr. Dojere was busy 
with a business new to him — thief hunting. He 
had employed detectives, and was filled with a 
bull-dog determination to find out how the rob- 
bery had been committed, and by whom. 

“ I tell you what, Thornbury,” he said, “ le’ me 
tell you, I will get to the bottom of this thing, or 
my name isn’t John Dojere. If there is any one 
thing I hate more than anything else, by thun- 
der, it’s a mystery ! I’ve had one mystery in my 
life, and one is enough. There was my wife’s 
sister, daughter of Luke Morton, now dead, dis- 
appeared one night years ago, and never was 
heard of since. Killed her mother and the old 
man, too, and made Sara as miserable as if she 
had lost me (perhaps more so); and, by Jove, I 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF Sift. 


61 


don’t like mystery. Here’s this robbery, commit- 
ted right under our noses— doors and windows 
all right, yet the place robbed; and, le’ me tell 
you, my son, I will know how it happened.” 

And he did know, sooner than he expected, 
and not with the result for which he had hoped. 

As the old man sat in his office, late in the 
day, one of his thief-hunters entered, and closed 
the door. 

“ What do you want ?” said Mr. Dojere. “ More 
money, to go on with your make-believe detective 
work ? I’ll give you one more installment, but, 
after that, let me tell you, my friend, no more 
money, until the goods are delivered.” 

The man took a seat. “ I have found some 
of the lost lace,” he said. 

Mr. Dojere was interested thoroughly, now. 
“ Where ? ” said he. 

“ In a fence’s place in Chatham street. The 
old Sheeney, who has got the stuff, was scared, 
when I charged him with receiving it, at night, 
through his back alley door, and, when I told 
him a few more things, he owned up; but he 
would not give me the cue, to get the fellow 
who stole the goods. Said he would give up the 


62 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


lace, but not the man, unless you came personally 
and asked him to.” 

“ What’s he act like that for ? ” said Mr. Dojere. 
“I’ll soon make him give up his thief. I’ll go 
there with you, to-night.” 

That night Mr. Dojere and the officer went to 
old Isaac’s shop, and Mr. Dojere identified his 
stolen property. He then demanded that Isaac 
'should surrender the thief. Isaac seemed loth 
to do so, but Mr. Dojere threatened him with 
immediate arrest, if he did not comply with his 
request. The old Jew’s eye glowed, with a 
strange light, when he made an arrangement that 
Mr. Dojere and the officer should conceal them- 
selves, in his shop, * at i o’clock, that night. 
That was the hour, he said, when the thief 
would come with the rest of the stolen lace, for 
part of it was still missing. 

At the appointed time Mr. Dojere and his 
man were ready, concealed in the shop, awaiting 
the coming of their prisoner that was to be. 
Mr. Dojere was beginning to enjoy the affair. 

They had not long to wait. In a moment, a 
slight sound was heard without; old Isaac un- 
bolted the back door and a man entered, bearing 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


63 


a bundle. It was the remainder of the stolen 
lace. Isaac stepped back, and the man laid the 
bundle upon the counter, and opened it; then, 
turning about, revealed to Mr. Dojere, who had* 
just come forth from his hiding-place, the well- 
known features of his own son Joe, clerk in the 
office of his father, and future member of the 
firm of Dojere & Co., the house of many years 
standing and untarnished reputation. 

Mr. Dojere gazed at the young man, who was 
too much terrified to move, with a look of horror 
and disgust depicted on his sturdy countenance. 

“Great God," he muttered, “can this be my 
son ! ” 

Long and fixedly he gazed upon the youth 
(the officer standing in readiness to seize the 
prisoner, at a signal, — old Isaac himself affected 
to silence by the work which he had done) and 
a shadow, like the grayness of death-pallor, fell 
upon his face. His son; the beloved son in 
whom he had been well pleased; the son of his 
old age, the babe of his early manhood, the son, 
to whom he looked for support in coming years; 
the son, upon whom he had intended to shower 
blessings, such as only the rich can give their 


64 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


children; his son, his heir, his successor in that 
honorable house: his boy — a thief ! The terrible 
truth came flowing in upon his mind, like the 
rush of waters from* a bursted lake sweeping 
through a fair valley, and he felt a strange 
sense of dread stealing upon him — dread for the 
future, dread for the past, and the present. He 
felt a fear of the truth, now, as great as had 
been his desire to know the truth an hour ago. 
His son was a thief, a mean, low-souled sneaking 
thief. He thought of his honor among men, of 
his pride in this boy, of .his wife, that thief’s 
mother, — and he thought of justice. A terrible 
conflict was now raging in his soul, a silent 
conflict, such as takes place only in the souls of 
“men of sterner stuff.” So long he stood there, 
that the officer opened his mouth to speak, but 
Mr. Dojere silenced him with a sign. His 
thoughts were shaping themselves now, and 
becoming coherent. 

This was his son; this was a thief. This was 
the boy whom his wife loved; this was a thief. 
This was the son, in whom had centered his best 
hopes and tenderest affections, in whom he had 
placed all confidence, and who was to be, some 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


65 


day, entrusted with the care of that house of 
great business and honorable reputation; this was 
a thief. He thought of all these things and 
more. He thought of his wife, the mother; of 
Alice, the sister; of Albert, the friend; of himself, 
the father and employer; he thought of the law 
and of justice — and there came from his lips, as 
from the lips of an Abraham at the funeral pyre, 
gazing lovingly upon the face of his Isaac, the 
words, “It must be so: take him, officer, I will 
appear against him to-morrow.” 

And the old gentleman passed out into the 
night, — the blackest night, which he had ever 
seen, and, with a blacker night in his heart, 
walked sturdily and sadly to his lonely home, 
where, God alone knows how he spent the hours 
until daylight. 

True to his promise, the father appeared, next 
morning, against his son, and the magistrate 
bound the youth over for trial. The firmness of 
Mr. Dojere, under this trial, was something 
woeful to contemplate. Many men thought him 
harsh and unfeeling, bigoted and even cruel. 
They knew not the fire of anguish, which burned 
deep down in his soul, as he gazed at that 


66 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


beloved son, whom he was delivering up to the 
stern hands of justice and law. But Mr. Dojere 
was a peculiar man, one of the sort, who could 
bear the gnawing of the fox at his vitals and 
still be calm, and so he bore the comments of 
his fellow men, without retort, and suffered in 
silence. Wrong-headed it may be, but true to 
his principles. Had Joe been any other clerk in 
the house, his treatment would have been the 
same; no worse, no better. 

This sad disclosure put an end to the stay 
of the family at the Branch, and the mother 
and sister returned to a saddened home. The 
hardest part of 'Mr. Dojere’s trial was yet to 
come, and, hard as it was, he bore it calmly and 
firmly. The pleading of the mother for her son, 
the supplications of the girl, whom he so dearly 
loved, praying, with tearful eyes, for the brother, 
were hard to endure, but he bore them. Almighty 
God, administering the sentence of doom to the 
rebellious angels, could not have been more firm 
in the sad solemnity of his stern, final judg- 
ment. Thornbury entered his plea for the 
unfortunate Joe, but it was a vain, appeal. Joe 
was a criminal, and no less a criminal, because 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES GE SIN. 


67 


he was the son of the man against whom he 
had sinned. Should the judge upon the bench 
refuse to pass sentence on his guilty and con- 
victed son, Mr. Dojere would not have admitted 
that any judge had a right so to do, and it was 
not right that he should shield the guilty, and, 
because it was not right, he would not do it. It 
sundered his very heart strings to thus decide, 
but it was just, and justice must be done. And 
so the luckless Joe, gay and foolish, once light- 
hearted and free, was confined in jail, to await 
the dreaded trial which, should make him a 
branded felon, and forever blast his life prospects, 
while his mother and sister sat silent, in dumb 
terror, and his father went about his business, 
with the vulture at his heart and his silent sorrow 
eating the life from his soul. 


CHAPTER IX. 


u Should 

A serpent tell me, with a look like that. 

There was no venom in his sting, I would 
Believe him.” 

While the senior member of the house of Do- 
jere & Co. was busy making money and hunting 
thieves, the younger member was playing a dan- 
gerous game. Albert, despite his resolve to 
avoid all danger, found himself unable to keep'' 
Alice from his thoughts, or to remain absent 
from her side. An irresistible fate seemed to 
draw him to her, which, battle against it as he 
might, was not to be conquered. The flame was 
bright, and the moth could not resist the temp- 
tation to singe his wings. Would that the meta- 
phor were perfect, and that, in this case, it had 
been only the moth which could be injured. 
Alice was now deeply in love with Albert — a 
pure, womanly love, which only waited to be 
asked, and it would give its all to the well-being 
of the one whom it thought it had found wor- 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


69 


thy. Albert knew this, and the thought of that 
other love, dead now, yet binding him with a 
galling, never-to-be-severed chain, maddened him. 

At times he thought he would tell Alice all 
his history, and throw himself for mercy at her 
feet, and beg her to cast him off; but it was a 
difficult thing to do. More than once he had 
almost done this, but, at the crucial moment, his 
courage would fail. Without meaning to, he 
made love to her. How could it be otherwise, 
with two persons whose whole souls and tastes 
were akin ? And Alice knew it — knew it by in- 
stinct — and waited with loving heart for more. 
She knew that he loved her, yet sometimes there 
would come over him fits of abstraction, which 
seemed unexplainable, and she would find her- 
self distressed that she could not ask him to 
let her share his cares, and show him how much 
she would f>ear for him. 

On one occasion, as they were riding along 
through a lonely region in silence, one of these 
fits came upon him, which distressed her so that 
she could no longer restrain herself from offer- 
ing him her sympathy. The silence had been of 
long duration, and she said: 


10 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

“Albert, my friend (what a tenderness was in 
her voice, although she strove to make it merely 
friendly), is there not some trouble brooding in 
your heart, some wrong, which a friend might 
share and bear with you, making the burden less 
burdensome to the heart which now bears it 
alone ? I do not desire to intrude on your 
thoughts, but I have noticed that often, when 
with me, you become troubled, and I know that 
I am not the cause of this trouble, whatever it 
may be. If I were less your friend, I might 
think it is I who have displeased you, but true 
friends should not so judge the moods of their 
dear ones. It is only silly school-girls who thus 
take crude offense at imagined wrongs. If your 
trouble is one that a friend might share, let me 
be that friend.’' 

Did ever manhood receive a truer tribute of 
love than this? Albert thought not, and the 
words and the tone of the speaker’s voice fell, 
with telling power, upon his heart. He tried to 
make some commonplace answer, but the answer 
would not come. Such words as those just spoken 
did not admit of flippant reply. He was on the 
point of telling her all the truth, but the thought 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


71 


came, that perhaps she might resent the insult 
which he had been offering her womanhood by 
his silent courtship, should he tell her how he 
had loved her, while belonging to another woman, 
and his courage failed him. Still, he Was moved 
to secure her sympathy, so much did he yearn 
for it. 

“Yes, Alice,” he replied, “there is a trouble 
weighing on my heart — a trouble so sore that, 
try as I will not to bear it about with me, it 
‘will not down.’ It comes to me in the lone 
hours of the night; it often follows me by day, 
and, even in your entertaining (he had nearly 
said precious) company, it sometimes finds me 
out, and will not be dispelled. Like many an- 
other man, I bear with me a burden, which I 
alone can scarcely carry, and which another can- 
not share.” 

“But, are you sure that no friend could, by 
his sympathy, make your burden less heavy? 
Could not the sacred fellowship of a true friend’s 
confidence become a solace in this sorrow or 
care, even though it might not kill the sorrow or 
remove the care ? ” 

“ I fear not, my friend. There are often 


72 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


burdens in the soul of man, the sharing of which 
with another, might make them doubly weighty. 
Mine is such a burden. Begotten of no fault of 
mine, but only a mistake, it is mine to bear 
forever, blighting my dearest hopes and making 
my life at times, a thing, which I would sell, 
like Esau, for a mess of perishable pottage, could 
I but enjoy the price, and then die.” 

“You should not talk like that,” she said. 
“ It is not manly, and does not please' me. If 
your trouble is of such a kind, as you say, bear 
it bravely, and hope for a brighter day, when it 
shall begin to be less of a burden. Live in your 
usefulness as a man, and find comfort in your 
friends. I do not ask you to tell that which 
must be hid in secret; whatever it be, I believe 
you, when you say that it is no, fault of yours 
which blights your life, and I offer you my 
truest friendship now, if you will take it for 
what it is worth, a friendship which asks noth- 
ing which it is not your wish to give, and 
which believes in your honesty and trusts you. 
Surely men have had women friends, who were 
above the grade of those, who seek their opposites 
in sex, merely that they may gain their affections 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. IS 

later.' Such a friendship I offer you, Albert. 
Will you accept it ? ” 

How she loved this man, to whom she was 
proffering only friendship. She felt that he 
loved her and that, for some reason, she knew 
not what, he could not tell her so. But 
she meant what she had said, and was wil- 
ling to have it so decreed, if it could never be 
otherwise. When he told her that he was blame- 
less, she believed him, and would have scorned 
to question him. And he: blameless; yes, he 
knew that it was not his fault, that the dead 
had come to life, but, was he wholly blameless 
for his life, subsequent to that revelation, which 
had shown him that he could no longer think 
of Alice, but with sin ? He feared that he was not, 
but he felt that he could not leave her. 

“ Alice,” he said, his voice low and tender, “ I 
accept your noble offer. I take your friendship. 
Let it be ever as the friendship of those, who, 
parting in death, hope to again clasp hands, in 
a happier and fairer land, than the one in which 
they part. Let it be a friendship true, unques- 
tioning and eternal. I accept it, and may God 
bless you for it.” 


74 ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

They spoke no more that night, but *rode 
home in silence. Albert felt a sense of relief. 
That bond of friendship seemed to have placed 
a guard about Alice, which made it seem that 
he was a little nearer to the path of right than 
before. But she — she loved him, N and she had 
not the consolation of knowledge to soothe her 
disturbed mind. So the compact was made, 
and they continued to make love, calling it 
friendship. “ What’s in a name ? ” O fatal 
deceit that lies in ambiguity, whether it be of 
word or sense ! These knew not even what 
friendship is. 

Meanwhile came the dreadful news of the 
crime committed by Joe, and the family returned 
to the city, saddened by the disgrace, which had 
come upon them. Alice felt for her brother 
most keenly, and her pleadings with the stern 
old man, his father, were many and piteous, but 
they availed nothing. Driven by despair and 
sorrow she took her trouble to Albert, who had, 
also, done all in his power to save Joe from his 
father’s just severity. To Albert the grief stricken 
girl opened her heart and pleaded as Portia 
pleaded for Antonio, in a vain hope, that he might 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


75 


win from his partner’s rigorous heart, some touch 
of mercy. And Albert was moved by this woman’s 
tears, as never woman had moved him before. 

He promised her that, if it were a possible 
thing to do, he would save Joe from the disgrace 
of state prison. The trial was near at hand, and 
Mr. Dojere kept mostly by himself, staying late 
at his office and leaving the house early in the 
morning. His stout old heart was breaking, but 
no one knew it. Such natures as his must always 
suffer in silence. 

Meanwhile the trial was approaching, and 
Joe had become certain that his doom was 
sealed. Thornbury kept his own counsel, and, 
only when he had solved the problem, made 
known his plans to Alice; and she, moved by 
her woman’s heart, accepted them, and forgave 
her “friend,” as he asked her to, for the wrong 
which he had done to please her. 

So, one dark, rainy night, a boat landed on 
the lonely shore of Raritan Bay, and Joe, well 
disguised, and accompanied by Albert and Alice, 
stood upon the sands and clasped hands, for the 
last time, perhaps, upon earth. Joe had full di- 
rections and money from Albert, and this was to 


76 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


be their last meeting. The morrow would see 
Joe fleeing for lands unknown, while the other 
two would return home, to pray for the erring 
one, and keep the secret. 

Joe was free ; in a short time he would be 
beyond capture, and the state prison would never 
confine him within its walls. A woman’s pity had 
saved him ; a friend’s frailty had delivered him 
from punishment. Albert’s money had bought 
him freedom. It could never buy back his 
reputation, it could never restore him to honor, 
but it had given him his liberty. He was free ; 
and Albert, the man of business honor, whom no 
man could have moved to do a dishonest deed, 
had bribed the jailor and set the prisoner free, 
because a woman had pleaded, with weeping eyes. 
That which he had done had been done for this 
woman, whom he called his “friend.” Oh, Friend- 
ship, what will you not induce men to do when 
your alias is “ Love ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 


“ Woe ! woe ! ill-fated one ! my last word this. 

This only, and no more forevermore.” 

“ Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” 

The fall days were come, and things had re- 
lapsed into their former routine. The saddened 
household went about its customary rounds, and 
none of its members ever mentioned the name 
of the one who had brought disgrace upon its 
honorable name. The heart of the mother was 
sore, but she bore her trouble in silent patience, 
hoping for a day of forgiveness and the return 
of the prodigal. Mr. Dojere was, in his daily 
doings, the same as before, but he was never jolly 
now, as he had been at times in the past, and he 
had become stern in his manner and unsocial. 
Some natures are thus affected by grief or wrong. 
They never mellow under the hand of chastise- 
ment or the pain of sorrow, but harden into 
silent austerity. Alice was not altogether un- 


IS 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


happy, for she felt that brighter days would 
come, and was hopeful. She knew that she was 
beloved, and she trusted in the honor of this lover 
who, for some reason, could not tell his love. 
Albert behaved much as formerly, but his fits of 
abstraction were often upon him. He felt him- 
self accursed, and began to look upon his wife 
as upon one who had no right to stand between 
him and his desires. He had pitied her at first; 
now he hated her. She had become his enemy, 
and he sometimes found himself wishing that 
she would die, and set him free. The wish was 

wicked, but it was a desire of nature and un- 

controllable. 

One evening he received a note. It was from 
Cora. With mingled thoughts he opened it. It 
was a request that he would call on her, just 

once, and she assured him that, after that, she 

would never trouble him again. 

“ You surely will not refuse a dying woman’s 
request ? ” the note said. It contained an address, 
in a miserable locality, and thither he went that 
night, feeling a sort of' pity for the woman, now 
that she was nearing her end, and could not 
be a clog upon his freedom much longer. Thus 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


79 


do we often forgive those who can no longer 
injure us. He found her in a wretched room, in 
her bed, with the pallor of final sickness upon 
her face. He entered and stood beside her 
couch, waiting for her to speak. She gazed at 
him long and earnestly. 

“You do not hate me, now, Albert, do you?” 
she said. 

“Hate you; no, Cora. I hope that I have 
never done that. You wronged me once, but 
that is passed, now. You asked me to love you 
again, but I could not. It was not my fault ; I 
could not.” ^ 

“ But you will forgive me, Albert, I know 
you will. If you knew how I have yearned for 
you, all these long years, repenting the rash 
deed, which I did not do, yet, having thought 
to do it, must bear its penalty in full, you 
would be full of pity for me. You would love me 
a little, only just a little, perhaps, but you could 
not help loving me. I *have suffered all that I 
can suffer for my sin, — I have lost your love. 
Sometimes I have thought my punishment too 
severe, unjust even, but God knows best about 
that. It is enough for me, to know that I have 


80 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

lost your love, and that I have no hope in life. 
I did think, Albert, that I might, by true peni- 
tence, win you back. I thought that these weary 
years of silence and honest remorse might awa- 
ken your love again, and give you back to me. 
When I met you, that night, by the water; I had 
hope, and I saw that you believed my story ; 
but I did not know, then. I know it now. 
You could not love me, because you had learned 
to 'love another, and my coming was like a death- 
blow to your hopes. Do not look at me so ; I 
will not upbraid you, dear. She is, perhaps, bet- 
ter than I, but, oh Albert, she can never love 
you more dearly than I do now, sinful, weak, 
penitent and dying. But, Albert, she — that wo- 
man — ” 

“Please talk of something else.” The words 
were cold and cutting, and the woman shuddered. 

“ Albert, dear,” .she continued, after a pause, 
“you must hear me, this time, because it will be 
the last, and because it is for your good, that I 
wish to speak to you. Oh do not refuse to hear 
me now, or you may regret it, all your life l 
Albert, tell me truly ; have I guessed aright ? 
Do you love this Alice?” 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


81 


“Better than my own immortal soul,” he mur- 
mured, scarcely knowing what he answered. 

“ I knew it, Albert ; my instinct guided me 
aright. You love Alice ; she is good and noble, 
but, oh my husband, when I am dead and gone, 
you must not wed that woman.” 

“Peace,, woman!” the words came sternly and 
coldly. “ Peace, I say ! ” 

“ I cannot obey you,” she cried, rising in her 
couch, her face flushing with a fever redness. 
“ I cannot hold my peace. Albert, by the love 
you once bore me, by the love I bear you now, 
I implore you, — a dying woman implores you, — 
Albert, not to love that woman. She must never 
be your wife. She cannot ! she shall not ! ” 

“ I tell you to hold your peace ! ” he cried. 
“ Such as you shall not name her to me.” 

“ O husband ! ” she cried, springing from the 
couch and throwing herself at his feet, her rich, 
dark hair flowing about her, “O my husband, 
hear me, hear me ! This must not be, Albert. 
Never could I rest in my grave, if such a thing 
were to come on you. I love you, Albert, love 
you better than you know, and you must not 
love her ; she — ” 


82 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


“ Cease, accursed woman ! I will not listen 
to you.” 

“Oh husband, curse me not ! I love you so. 
I have much to tell you yet, and if you will but 
hear me, you will cover my poor head with 
blessings, not curses, for the love I give you, 
when I might have been revenged for curse un- 
just. This Alice whom you love is not — ” 

“Will you obey me, or shall I leave you here, 
fleeing from the sound of your polluting voice?” 

“ Hear me, Albert ! I will be brief. You can- 
not wed this woman, whom you love. I will 
not allow it ! I, your wife, forbid it ! She — ” 
With an oath, he flung her from him, and 
fled. She lay unconscious on the floor, a long 
time; and, then, crawling feebly to her bed, lay 
down and thought. And as she thought, her 
love, cherished so long, began to grow cold and 
turn to hate. This man, whom she had loved 
all the long years, for whom she had suffered so 
much, whom she was willing to renounce forever, 
and to whom she had been ready to do a great 
service, this man had spurned her, had rejected 
the sacrifice, which she was about to make, — this 
man had scorned her, had cursed her; and she 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


83 


now began to hate him. And, as the hatred 
grew, its force came ever in increasing volumes 
of anathemas, until she hated him with a danger- 
ous and vengeful hatred, which, had she been 
able to act, would have boded him no good. 
But she was sick and dying, while he was well 
and prosperous. She hated him now for that; 
she hated him for everything that was of him 
or near to him. And thus' she lay in her lonely 
bed, hating the husband, whom she had loved 
so much during those ten long years. 

When Albert, ashamed of his brutality, and 
sorry for his rashness, returned next morning to 
ask a more amicable farewell from the woman, 
who was, after all, his dying wife, he found that 
Cora was gone. No one about the place had 
seen her go out, and he could get no information 
of her whereabouts. He had come too late; 
like many another penitent of this earth, he had 
come too late, to save himself. He did not 
know it, but he felt unhappy, that he had parted 
thus, in anger, from the woman, who had been 
true to him, so many years, and whom he did 
pity, although he could not love her. 

After this event, it is not strange that the 


84 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


announcement of tho finding of a woman’s body, 
in the river, that night, attracted his attention, 
and that he went to the house of the unknown 
dead, as soon as possible, to see this drowned 
woman, whom no one knew. There she lay on 
the cold marble slab, what remained of a self- 
destroyed woman, driven to her doom by that 
most remorseless of all foes, circumstances, a foe 
against whom woman is less able to do battle 
than man. Her garments were shabby, but the 
form which they covered was shapely, and would 
well have displayed the best of raiment, and the 
face — Albert felt a chill, as he raised the cloth 
which hid it. A fair, sweet face, a calm, peaceful 
face now, whatever it may have been in life- 
expression, oval and clear of skin, and enshrouded 
in a wealth of rich dark hair. It was a beautiful 
face and Albert almost loved it again, now that 
it was his no more. Yes, it was Cora, beyond a 
doubt. 

* 

He told the attendant that he could give him 
no information about the dead. How could he 
bare his life to the cold public gaze, and what 
good would it do if he should do so? He had 
met her, he said, but could tell nothing of her 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 85 

history, excepting that she had seemed friendless. 
But he would bear the expense of her burial. 
Of her death he knew nothing. This much he 
told, and no more. 

As he talked homeward, all the past came 
back to him, from the day when, in his mad in- 
fatuation he had taken that fair woman to his 
heart, to this day, when he had found her, dead, 
in the morgue. He felt sorry that their final 
meeting had been such as it was — that they had 
parted in anger. A kindly parting would have 
been better. But it was over, and he was free. 
Free ! He felt that he must scream the word 
aloud, in the street. Free ! Free to walk abroad, 
with no. secret in his heart; free to do as he 
pleased with his affections; free to woo Alice in 
honor; free to marry her ! 

He hurried along, and, ringing the bell of Mr. 
Dojere’s house, called for Alice. Soon she came 
to him; and there, in the quiet of the old house, 
Jie told her of his past, of Cora, of her return to 
life, of his love for herself, of his unhappy 
parting with the wife who was a clog to his life, 
of her death — all (hold ! he did not tell her of 
Cora’s mention of herself; perhaps he could not; 


/ 


86 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


he attributed it to mere jealousy, at the most) — 
all — all but that; and Alice heard him. She said 
no word to interrupt the tale, but at its close 
she placed her hand in his, and raised her trust- 
ing face up to be kissed. No proposal of 
marriage had been made; but they knew, and 
were happy. 


“Ah r race of mortal men, 

How as a thing of naught 
I count ye, though ye live; 

For who is there of men 
That more of blessing knows, 
Than just a little while 
To seem to prosper well, 

And, having seemed, to fall?” 


CHAPTER XI. 


“ Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.” 

It was winter, and the Christmas season was 
not far off. The sorrows of the family had be- 
come as a wound which kindly time has scarred 
over, and quiet serenity reigned in Mr. Dojere’s 
home. 

To-night, however, the usual calm of the fam- 
ily is ruffled, for it is the night of a wedding, 
and Alice has but now become the wife of her 
foster-father’s young partner. The wedding has 
been a quiet one, witnessed only by a few inti- 
mates, and the happy pair are soon to leave for 
a short tour, returning in time for the Christmas 
Eve reunion at the old home. Alice is very 
happy in this climax of her long, silent loving, 
and Albert is happier than he remembers ever 
to have been before, for this union is, he feels, 
in reality a joining of “two souls with but a 
single thought, two hearts that beat as one.” 


88 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


Friendship may be the joining of “ two souls 
with but a single thought,” love the union of 
“two hearts that beat as one,” but marriage, to 
be marriage in its highest sense, must be the 
union of soul with -soul, and heart with heart, and 
few there are who find this boon. If such a 
union be possible on earth, surely that of two such 
beings as these just married gives promise of it. 

The ceremony, and all that follows a wedding- 
day ceremony, being over, the time for the “ good 
byes” had arrived, and Alice, in her traveling 
robes, having bid farewell to the good souls 
who had given her parents’ care and love, went 
out into the cold, snowy night, leaning upon her 
husband’s arm. 

Albert placed her in the carriage, and was about 
to follow himself, when a person touched his arm, 
and, turning about, he beheld that, which seemed 
to freeze the blood in his heart, — the face of Cora 
Tate, pale, wan and passionless, but with a bale- 
ful glitter in its eyes. He tried to speak, but 
could not command his voice, and only stared. 
The time seemed to him long, but it was only a 
few seconds since she had touched him, when 
she spoke. 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


89 


'‘Albert,” she said, “you were too willing to 
think me dead. You did not look well at that 
other’s face. You would not listen to me, when 
you thought me dying. You would not come 
near me, when you thought me dead. You have 
punished me more than was your right : you 
scorned me, when I gave you loving penitence : 
you spurned my dying counsel, and would not 
hear my warning voice. I hate you now ! I 
leave you to your fate. Go.” 

Then the voice, which had been subdued and 
mellow, ceased ; and she was gone. 

He never had any clear recollection of what 
followed, except that he found himself in the 
carriage, beside his wife, and that he was telling 
her some lie or other, about “ an importunate 
beggar.” Alice, with woman’s quick perception, 
saw that he was troubled, but, with a wisdom 
not often possessed by woman, dropped the mat- 
ter then and there, and never spoke of it again. 
She made up her mind that she would never look 
into the past again, but would devote herself to 
the happy “ now.” There was wisdom in this, 
and many a married pair would be happier, were 
the wife to adopt this plan of living. Men are 


90 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


not prone to inquiry into the past of their wives. 
They believe them pure, and, as a rule, battle 
against the very idea of thinking otherwise ; but 
women often allow themselves to pry back into 
the past of their husbands, and, in so doing, 
sometimes render a once assured happiness void, 
and make for themselves a future of senseless 
jealousies and miserable discomfitures. This was 
an error, into which Alice did not allow herself 
to drift. 

So the wedding tour was, after all, a pleasant 
one, and unmarred by any disagreeable events. 
Albert, to be sure, was occasionally moody, and 
seemed absorbed in sombre thoughts, but he 
managed to keep them out of notice, most of the 
time, and Alice did not often allow him to brood 
alone. 

As to Albert, his condition of mind was one, 
which he himself could not have described. He 
sometimes found himself almost believing that 
Cora was really dead, and that the face in the 
street was only a vision : yet he knew better. 
He knew that she was alive, and that he had 
made a hasty mistake, when in the morgue. 
“ Albert, you were too willing to think me dead. 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


91 


You did not look well at that other’s face.” 
The words came back to him, with terrible force. 
He had been too willing to believe her dead. It 
was true. Had the dead woman, in the morgue, 
been Alice, would he have given her but' a pass- 
ing glance ? Ah, no. He knew it well, now. 
He had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and 
one not to be remedied. The more he pondered 
on these things, the more he determined not to 
alter his course. He could not give up that 
which he had gained, and which he might still 
retain, if he could only find the means to silence 
this terrible witness. And he had money. With 
money he had saved Joe, and why not himself? 
Cora was alone, without friends, and an outcast, 
while he was powerful. She could be silenced, 
or, at any rate, if the worst came, suppressed be- 
yond belief. He knew that he was becoming a 
villain at heart already,' but the words of Cora 
had put him on his mettle, and now that the die 
was cast, he meant to fight for Alice, if need be. 
He never would have married her, knowing Cora 
to be alive, but he had married her honorably, 
and the fault was not his. 

Thus he reasoned with himself and his warped 


92 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


conscience. It was the best that he could do, 
he thought, and he mapped his course accordingly. 

So they went away on their bridal tour, happy 
in each other, but with the little shadow of a 
cloud, no bigger than a hand, over them. 
Happy as they were, Alice felt the shadow of 
the cloud. Albert felt the shadow of the cloud, 
but, unlike Alice, knew that it was not the 
shadow of a cloud passing away, but of one 
rising and spreading over the horizon. How 
great or how little the storm behind it might be 
he knew not, but he felt its coming with ominous 
dread. Like the monarch of old, he saw the 
writing on the wall, and knew it was of evil 
portent, yet could not read its meaning. But it 
troubled him. 


CHAPTER XII. 


u Could we but know the working of our deeds, 

But tear the veil apart and see the end. 

The horrid climax of some petted scheme 
Might turn us from a foeman to a friend.” 

“ Woe ! woe ! woe ! woe ! all cometh clear at last ! 

O light, may this my last glance be on thee, 

Who now am seen, owing my birth to those 
To whom I ought not, and with whom I ought not. 

In wedlock living.” 

Christmas eve. Albert and Alice had arrived 
home, the day before, and, to-night, were to be 
present at a social gathering in Mr. Dojere’s 
house. It was early, as yet, and Albert had 
gone out, for an hour, to attend to some matters 
in which Santa Claus and the children are 
supposed to be jointly interested, leaving Alice 
in her pretty little room. Alice was very happy 
to-night, happy in her love, happy in the love 
of her husband and happy in her peace of mind 
and purity of soul. The little cloud, which had 
dimmed the glory of her sunshine, for a brief 
time, had vanished entirely during her wedding 


94 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


tour, and Albert had been himself again. She 
sat in the pretty little easy-chair, which he had 
given her, and, glancing about the room, with 
its every color and fitting bespeaking, not only 
the good taste of its furnisher, but his love for 
her, was filled with this happiness unspeakable. 

Here, in this sanctum sanctorum of their little 
home, would they pass the happiest hours of 
their lives. Here they would read together, here 
talk, in soft tones, of their mutual joys, and 
here, it might be, they would retire together in 
sorrow. Here she would be loved by the husband 
whom she worshipped, as the women of the 
mythologies worshipped their God-lovers, here 
her children would be born, here their proud 
father would first gaze upon them and upon her 
with that tenderness, which comes to manhood 
at the birth of its offspring and the safety of 
its best beloved. Here should be her home, her 
rest, her holy-of-holies. 

Thus she sat dreaming, in the innocence and 
purity of her woman’s soul. 

Did you ever see a gentle dog, in company 
with its master, gazing at him with that trustful 
fondness, so common in the dog, when it has a 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


95 


kind ruler? How happy the creature seems in 
this perfect faith. Some one unseen now dis- 
charges his murderous gun at the unsuspecting 
creature, and the death-dealing bullet pierces its 
side. Note the change from- joy to misery, the 
sudden turning with rage at the person who has 
intended the wrong, as it thinks to its beloved 
master. Then let it slowly dawn upon the crea- 
ture’s mind, that it is the master himself, who 
has done this wrong, and it may flee from him 
in terror, but it loves him still. It is a theme 
worthy of a poet’s pen. Such is the love of wo- 
man for the man, who, having won her affections, 
wrongs her. 

As Alice sat, thus musing, in her room, a 
servant announced that a poor woman was with- 
out, who wished to speak to her. 

She said she must see you herself, m am,” 
said the maid. 

“ Let her come into the reception room,” said 
Alice. “I will see her there.” 

She went below in a minute, and, in the room, 
met a tall, finely built young woman, very shab- 
bily dressed. Her face bore traces of beauty, 
but it also bore the marks of incurable disease. 


96 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


What she might have been, it was difficult to 
imagine, but handsonfe she ceftainly had been. 
Alice motioned her to a seat, but she refused, 
with a nod, and remained standing. 

“Are you the’ wife of Albert Thornbury,” in- 
quired the visitor. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do you love him very dearly ? ” 

“ What do you mean by such questions as 
these ? ” s£id Alice, calmly, but flushing at the 
manner of the stranger. 

“ No matter what I mean,” replied the woman, 
“I have something to tell you.” 

“If there is anything I can do for you, — ” 
said Alice. 

“ There is nothing you can do for me,” said 
the woman.” I have a letter for your husband, 
that is all. I believe you are a woman who 
would not tell a lie. You look like one.” 

“I should hope so.” 

“Then, if I give this letter to you, you will 
deliver it to your husband.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Will you also read it first yourself ? ” 

“ I do not, generally, read my husband’s letters.” 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


97 


“ Then you cannot have this one.” 

“ But why should I read it, pray ? ” 

“ Because it concerns you more than it does 
him.” 

“ Very well ; I will read it then.” 

“ And I wish you to read it now. It is not 
sealed, as you see. Read it now.” And the 
woman handed her a stained, yellow piece of pa- 
per, ip an equally much -stained envelope, and, 
stepping back a pace, waited for Alice to read. 

As Alice read the blurred and faded writing, 
the woman watched, with evident, intense interest. 
The letter was dated Oct. — , 18 — , over eighteen 
years before, and read as follows : 

“ Dear Albert : 

“The end is at hand. Deserted by you, and 
left to perish alone, I have borne all that I can 
bear. I do not ask you to think tenderly of me,^ 
you have used me too cruelly for that ; but I 
want you to know what has become of our baby, 
for she is our baby, born in true wedlock, 
whether you own her or not. I have left her at 
the house of my father’s old friend, in the hope 
that my sister will take her and be good to her. 
She will never know whose child she is caring 


1 


98 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


for, but I have placed my locket, the one which 
you gave me, when you loved me, upon her 
neck, with a note requesting that she be told, 
when she grows up, that she must always keep 
it, for her mother’s sake. You will know the 
locket, and should you ever find her, be good to 
her, for she is your daughter, — and injure her 
not, for the sake of her mother, whom you de- 
stroyed. I shall never trouble you again.. I go 
to meet my God, to*-night. May He forgive you 
for the wrong you have done your wife. 

“Mary Morton Thornbury.” 

The letter was addressed, “ Mr. Albert Thorn- 
bury, care Dojere & Co., London.” 

Alice read the letter in a bewildered way, not 
half comprehending its import, but she knew that 
it was brought for the purpose of doing her hus- 
band harm, and it angered her. 

“ Have you read it ? ” said the woman. 

“I have,” said Alice, “and I desire that you, 
villain, liar, forger as I am sure you are, leave 
my house at once.” 

“You promised me — ” 

“And I will keep my promise,” cried Alice, 
flushing with anger. “ My husband shall have 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


99 


the letter, and will, probably, know how to deal 
with the blackmailer who originated it. Leave 
me at once!” 

“ Certainly, madam, with pleasure. If you 
should want any witnesses as to the genuineness 
of the letter, there is an address,” throwing a 
card upon the table. “ Good evening,” and the 
woman went quietly from the room. 

Somehow the sight of that pure, girlish face 
unnerved her, and deprived her of all desire to 
see her suffering. “ It will be enough to know 
that he is punished,” she said to herself, as she 
went forth into the snowy night. “ She loves 
him, she loves him,” she muttered, “ and, my 
God, so do I ! ” and she hurried away. 

Alice, now that the woman had departed, be- 
gan to think. She read the letter carefully, to 
the end. It did not, as yet, enter her mind that 
this could be anything more than a scheme to 
levy blackmail upon her husband, but, neverthe- 
less, there was one passage in the letter which 
puzzled her. Perhaps it was only a coincidence, 
but it was strange. Of her own birth and 
parentage she knew nothing, excepting that she 
was an adopted daughter, and more than that 


100 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


she never had asked to know. The impression 
on her mind was, that her parents were both 
dead long ago. Mr. and Mrs. Dojere had been 
father and mother to her, and it had never 
occurred to her to think of any others as being 
such. But one thing in that letter troubled her; 
not that it occured to her to connect her husband 
with it, in any way, but because it was a queer 
coincidence. She did have a locket, which had 
come into her possession, in a manner similar to 
that described in the letter. Mrs. Dojere had 
given it her, on her tenth birthday, and told her 
that it had been left for her, by her mother, 
with a request that she would always keep it, 
for her mother’s sake. More than this Mrs. 
Dojere had never told her, and Alice had sup- 
posed that this was all that she knew. The 
locket was a peculiar trinket, quite large, heart- 
shaped, curiously engraved and studded with a 
row of small diamonds, and bearing the inscrip- 
tion, “'Till death does us part” in French. 
How could the writer of this vile letter have 
hit upon such an odd coincidence ? 

She went to her jewel-case and got the locket, 
and, almost for the first time ie her life, began 


ALICE : OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


101 


to wonder who her mother was, and to speculate 
upon the mystery of her parentage, and had al- 
most forgotten the disagreeable letter, in her 
meditation upon the other topic, when Albert en- 
tered. 

How handsome he was, fresh from the winter 
air, with a bright sparkle in his eyes, as he laid 
the mysterious Christmas bundles upon the table, 
slyly hiding one in his pocket, and came to her. 
He leaned over her and gently kissed her beau- 
tiful hair. He did not see the letter or the 
locket, for they lay in the shadow, and he was 
too intent in gazing upon the dear face that he 
loved, to notice surroundings. 

“ Why this look of worriment on my pretty 
face ? ” said he, noticing the expression of her 
countenance. 

“Oh, Albert, such a visit as I have had since 
you went out. A strange woman came to me, 
and brought a letter which, she said, was for me 
to read and give to you, — a horrible, blackmail- 
ing letter ! And I have been so angry over it, 
to think that any one could expect to make me 
think ill of you, darling. Here ; you can read 
it, and then throw it into the fire, or keep it as 


102 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


evidence to catch the villains, if they ever come 
again.” And, with love, trust, faith and confi- 
dence depicted in her bright eyes, she handed 
him the letter. 

He took it, with an expression of curiosity, and 
began to read it, carelessly at first, then slowly 
and attentively. An expression of pain and re- 
gret came over his face, so that Alice said : 

“ Oh, don’t let that thing worry you. Nobody 
is going to turn me against you, dear.” 

“True, darling,” he replied, “it is foolish to 
mind such sneaking things as this.” 

He had composed himself by this time, remem- 
bering the presence of his wife, — but he was think- 
ing with painful intensity. For him there was no 
doubting the genuineness of the letter. The 
handwriting of Mary Morton he knew at once, 
and this, this letter, brought on a Christmas eve, 
in the honeymoon of his only happy marriage, 
was like a visitor from the grave. It explained 
nothing clearly, but it tbld him that Mary was, 
without doubt, dead, and it told him also that 
there was, somewhere in the world, either a living 
child of his own, or a grave containing her 
remains. Which ? — Were this child alive, how 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


103 


much might she know or not know? Mary’s 
letter told him that the child, his babe, had been 
left at the house of Mr. Dojere. Neither Dojere 
nor his wife had ever mentioned the fact. It 
would not be like Dojere, if he knew that such 

was the case, to hesitate to tell him, Albert, about 

• 

it, and to censure him soundly for the whole affair. 
Probably it was Mary’s intention to leave her 
babe there, but something had prevented. And, 
again, how came it to happen that the letter 
should be so long delayed, and then (^livered 
in such a manner. That, certainly, did (look like 
blackmail ; but the writing — it was surely that of 
his first girl-love. Could Mary have known 
Cora? No, that was impossible; yet, 'somehow, 
he began to think that Cora might have been 
the bearer of the letter, and he was pondering 
over this when Alice, speaking, aroused him from 
his thoughts. “Anyhow,” he thought, “she shall 
never know that it is anything but a spurious 
document.” 

“Never mind the letter, dear,” said she, “but 
let me tell you something singular. You see the 
letter mentions a locket left by a mother for her 
babe. You know I am only an adopted child 


104 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


of Mr. Dojere; and is it not strange that, as a 
coincidence I should have a locket, which my 
mother left for me, with an injunction, similar to 
that described in this foolish letter ? See, here 
it is, dear. You have probably never noticed it, 
as I seldom wear it, fearing that it might be 
lost.” And she placed the locket in his hand. 

Albert took it mechanically, (his thoughts had 
begun to become strangely confused, while his 
wife was speaking) and looked at it, at first 
quickly, then with a steady gaze, full of amaze- 
ment, terror and conflicting emotions. Alice was 
frightened at his appearance. She started to 
speak, but he moved his hand in a manner 
which stilled her at once, and filled her with a 
nameless fear. 

For a long time, Albert gazed upon that locket. 
He knew it well. It was one made to his own 
order, for Mary Morton, nearly twenty years 
before, and he knew it. His gift to Mary; 
Mary’s gift to her child; to his child; and a 
gift to his wife from her mother. There could 
be no doubt. The beautiful woman before him 
was his daughter ! He looked at her, a search- 
ing, piercing look, that chilled her heart, — and, 


105 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 

as he looked, he began to see a resemblance, 
faint but true, to the sweet girl, whom he had 
basely ruined and deserted. Thought after 
thought came pouring over his mind, and as 
the truth, the terrible truth of bald facts, became 
clear, a sound of anguish, such as few ever 
utter, burst from his lips, — and with a cry, like 
that of the fate-stricken CEdipus, a cry of horror 
and anguish, he rushed from the room, — and 
Alice heard him hurrying through the halls and 
into his library, closing the door behind him. 
Then all was still. 

How long she remained there in terror, she 
never knew, but she was aroused by the entrance 
of a servant, who said that Mr. Dojere, was 
below, and had come to ask, what delayed her 
and Mr. Thornbury so long. Alice had always 
loved this strangely blflff old gentleman, as a 
daughter should,, and she went to him at once. 

“We had begun to think that you were sick, 
daughter,” he said, as he kissed her. “Why 
have you not been at the house; and where is 
Albert ? ” 

Filled with a nameless terror, she handed him 
the letter and the locket; and, fleeing from his 


106 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


presence, before he could restrain her, she 
hurried along the hallway to the library. She 
opened the door gently, and entered , the room. 
He was not there. On a table was a note, which 
she knew at once to be for her from her 
husband. It merely told her to read some 
letters, which were laid on the table, and she 
would know all. There were two of them, and 
they were in the same handwriting as the first 
received that evening, and bore the signature, 
“Your loving wife, Mary M. Thornbury.” 

Slowly and surely the light began to dawn 
upon her clouded thoughts. Mary Morton; her 
baby, his baby; left with Mrs. Dojere; the locket'; 
herself; herself and the locket; the locket and 
Mary Morton; Mary Morton and Albert Thorn- 
bury; her husband! — 

As, to a man, walking in the dark, along a 
road, the flash of the lightning reveals the 
sudden presence of a deadly serpent in the act 
of springing at him, so, at the silent mention of 
her husband, the whole truth flashed upon 
Alice. It was all true, the letter was genuine, — 
and he knew it. Her husband was her father ! 
She was his daughter, basely deserted, in her 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


107 


infancy, to be more basely debased in her 
womanhood! A sickening horror filled her high- 
bred soul, her head was all afire within, her 
brain seemed filled with horrid fumes, a sense 
of loathing for herself came over her, and, 
with a moan of woeful timbre , she staggered 
across the room, and parting the drapery between 
the library and reception room, stopped on the 
threshold, transfixed by a sight which met her 
gaze, “a sight to touch e’en hatred’s self with pity.” 

Albert Thornbury lay upon the floor, dead. 
With a cry of love, for love will live when other 
senses are dead, she fell upon the corpse and 
covered it with kisses. Surely she might love him, 
now that he was dead ; but a second thought 
came ; Mary Morton was dead, and Mary Mor- 
ton was his wife ; while she, what was she ! 
Worse than anything of which society can con- 
ceive, worse than the commonest of the common, 
lower than the lowest. Hastily rising, she hur- 
ried to her room, just as Mr. Dojere, who had 
been trying to make something out of the letter 
which she had given him to read, entered the 
parlor, and found the dead body of his partner 
lying upon the floor. 


108 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


With the help of a man servant, whom he 
summoned quickly, he carried Albert to his room, 
summoned a doctor, and took possession of the 
house. He sent for his wife, and, then, telling 
her briefly what had happened, sent her in search 
of Alice. Then he read the letter again, and 
also those found in the library, thought a while, — 
and perceived the truth. As he arose from a 
chair, with a heart heavier than he had ever 
known before, his wife met him at the door, her 
face full of terror, and her eyes running with 
tears. Alice was nowhere to be found. She* had 
fled. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“ Be sure your sin will find you out.” 

“ To eyes which spoke and said: Sleep, Dreams and Death — we are 
the only gods that answer prayer ; with the faint gleam of the tender 
evening light, there came a human form, barefooted, bareheaded, with 
broken links of golden, chains gleaming here and there upon her limbs, 
with white robes hanging heavily, soaked with dews and rains, * * * 
and fell at the feet of Thanatos.” 

She had fled. Even as her mother, nearly 
twenty years before, had fled from her home, 
with her burden of shame and her breaking 
heart, to bury her crushed soul and outraged 
womanhood in oblivion, so Alice now fled, from 
all that was dear to her. In the short hour, 
which had turned her happiness to agony, she 
had lost all care for life, all yearning for friend- 
ships, all desire for love. One idea alone now 
filled her mind, an idea which had never before 
come to her. She now cared not to see ever 
again the faces of those to whom she had been so 
dear. The kind friends, the tender foster-parents, 
the once beloved husband, were all alike to her 
objects of terror. 


110 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


But one idea filled her soul, and one creature 
alone, of all the universe, had a place in her 
heart. She yearned for her mother. To this one 
person of all the universe she yearned to go ; 
and she was dead. With a sense that God had 
entirely deserted her, she felt that Mother, and 
Mother alone, would have taken her in, loath- 
some as she had become in her own sight, and 
given her comfort. She had now, out of all the 
mass of confused thoughts which filled her brain, 
but one idea. 

Hurrying along, in the chilly winter night, she 
bore, in her hand, the card, which the horror- 
bringing messenger had left. As she hurried 
along the streets, she was conscious that it was 
a gala night ; that the store-windows were ablaze 
with lights, that happy people were jostling past 
her, as they bore their Christmas burdens to 
happy homes, and that the world was gay. 
The world was happy, but it was no longer her 
world. For her there was now no world, past, 
present, or future. She was the one, of all the 
world, who was unlike all the rest, and a terrible 
sense of loneliness came upon her. She met a 
party of bad wpmen in company with worse men. 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


Ill 


She was lower than they. How they would laugh 
in scorn, could they know her story. As she 
passed them, one of the men spoke to her, but 
she was not offended. Why should she be ? 
She had fallen lower than he, or his companions. 
You smile at her illogical ideas; but would the 
world, to-morrow, be more just to her than she 
was to herself ? On she goes through the streets, 
turning here and there, as she notes, by the let- 
tering on the lamp-posts, the course she wishes 
to take. 

At last she has reached her destination. She 
enters the wretched den of Isaac, and inquires 
for Cora. The old man informs her that he 
does not know who she is. He is frightened, 
for he is not certain that this visit may not fore- 
bode some trouble for himself; and when she 
abruptly tells him her name, and her errand, he 
is only too glad to do that which she asks, and 
which he alone can do. Donning his old hat and 
coat, the aged man goes forth with her into the 
night, and something of pity, if not regret, touches 
him, as he looks at the woe-begone face of the 
girl, whom he has helped to ruin. Through the 
streets together go the once proud and happy 


112 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


lady of refinement and culture and the sordid 
Jew. On they go, Alice walking in silence, while 
Isaac leads the way. He does not understand 
what this journey means, but he is afraid not to 
obey, so on they go, until, at last, they come to a 
grave-yard. Tracing the way carefully among 
the stones and mounds, old Isaac leads her to a 
remote corner of the plat, and, by a sign, indi- 
cates a certain grave. 

“ Are you sure ? ” she asks. 

“ I am, my lady, for I followed her here, my- 
self, nigh twenty years ago, and marked the spot,” 
he replies. 

“Very well, you may go,” she says, and hands 
him her purse. 

Mechanically his sordid hands grasp his god, 
and he moves away, wondering whether he has 
done a wise thing or not. 

He is gone, and she is alone at last, with the 
only thing in the universe for which she cares — 
her mother’s ashes. She feels a sense of peace 
stealing over her shocked and anguished soul, 
and fancies she feels a presence near her. She 
knows it is her mother, for it allays the terrible 
yearning which has been her agony this dread- 

'i 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


113 


ful night. She is not certain just how long 
it may have been since she fled from that hor- 
ror, but it has been a long time, anyhow. This 
is her mother’s grave. “ Mother,”* “ Mother ; ” 
she keeps repeating the soft word over to her- 
self, and it seems to do her good. And she 
never knew her; never knew this sweet woman 
who loved her, this long-suffering woman, who 
died for her, in the hope that she might be saved 
to an honorable life. Perhaps, after all, it is bet- 
ter as it is. Had she learned her mother’s story 
in a different way, she might have wronged her 
in her heart. Now she adores her as a saint. 
It is not So dark as it was. Morning must be 
near. The thought of daylight brings a dread 
to her heart; she must not wait so long. Her 
mother must come soon and take her. She feels 
that this will be so, and that all she has to do 
is to wait. It is chilly, but she hardly notes it, 
and a drowsy feeling is stealing over her. She 
seems to be half alive and half in a trance-like 
state, and again she feels that gentle presence. 
How soothing it is, how full of restfulness ! 
She must have had some such feeling as this, 
when, a little babe, she fell asleep in her moth- 


114 


ALICE; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


er’s arms. She is asleep and dreaming — but no: 
that vision was too vivid for a dream. Fair, 
sweet face, tender eyes: this is no dream; it is 
Mother! A soft sigh, and Alice is asleep — peace- 
ful, quiet sleep, such as comes only to the inno- 
cent of heart and pure of soul. 

They found her next morning, dead, in the ne- 
glected corner of the burial ground, upon one of 
the pauper graves. Neither Mr. Dojere nor his 
wife ever knew why she had gone there to die. 
Only God and her mother held that secret. 
They buried her beside her false husband, for it 
was best that it should so be done, and the hor- 
rid secret of their lives was buried with them. 
The grave keeps its own counsel, so long as men 
disturb it not, and there were none who cared to 
invoke secrets from these graves. 

So let them rest: she the fair, unsullied soul, 
so fit to live, so fit to die, prepared for either 
state; he the noble and the ignoble, who thought 
that repentance alone without reparation could 
atone for wilful sin, and of whom it is best to 
say: 

“ No further seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 

The bosom of his Father and his God,” ■ 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


115 


The tale is told. In the quiet of the grave, 
among the silent multitudes of bygone years, 
crumble the remains of Albert Thornbury. In 
the narrow bed next him lies the woman whom 
he loved with the tenderness of manhood’s strong 
passion, and whom he knew, too late, could never 
be his wife; whom he blasted in her woman- 
hood, and against whom he sinned, unconsciously 
but beyond redress. She lies in the wife’s place, 
but she is not his wife. In the far corner of 
the same plat, unknown, unmourned, forgotten, 
is another grave, and in it lies the woman who 
is his wife, and against whom he sinned guiltily. 
Three graves, containing the wrecks of three 
lives, destroyed by a boy’s sinful mistake. 


“Be sure your sin will find you out.” Men 
repeat the words often, but they do not believe 
them to be true. Gould we raise the impenetra- 
ble curtain of time, and see the scene behiitd, 
could we foresee the end of our bad begin- 
ings, this might become an almost sinless world. 
Could the thoughtless girl, coquetting in her 
innocent sense of safety, toying with the double- 
edged tools, which, sooner or later, cut back and 


116 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


rend the heart with merciless stabs, blighting 
the life and making a double terror of death, 
foresee the end, she would be more careful of 
herself, and value less, than she does, the empty 
gratifications of vanity. Could the venerated pas- 
tor, seeking the companionship of # the women of 
his congregation, ever too ready to fall in love 
with their father-confessor, meaning perhaps no 
harm, foresee the intricate meshes of the toils 
into which he is weaving himself, he would be 
more circumspect in his conduct. Could the 
young man, lightly trifling with the loves of wo- 
men, knowing little of the power of that delicious 
poison, which destroys body, soul and mind, 
know the danger which lurks behind the golden 
glories of such delights, and see the work which 
time will develop, he would seek his mother 
oftener and the soft-skinned beauties of his choice 
would lose, for him, many of their charms. Could 
the man of business, misapplying the trusts in 
his charge, a little here a little there, falsifying 
his accounts, robbing this one to deceive that 
one, covering his tracks skillfully, and, as he 
thinks, forever, foresee the end, the disgrace, the 
ruin, the never to be rectified wrong which he is 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


m 


doing himself, his dealings would be honest, and 
his conduct above reproach and honorable. We 
see it not ; we have no faith in the words. They 
apply to others, but not to ourselves. Our sin 
will not find us out. Albert Thornbury little 
thought that the sin of twenty years oblivion 
would ever come back to him. Little did he 
suspect that, in the very moment of his greatest 
happiness, when all the troubles of his life were 
at rest, when he had at last found the one thing 
needful to fill the vacant place in his man’s heart, — 
little did he think, that, at this moment of self- 
satisfaction, the horrible truth would be forced 
upon him that his sin had found him out. 

And, more terrible even than this, comes the 
dreadful truth of that other awful warning, the 
truth of which is proven, in moral and physical 
life, at all times, that the sins of the fathers 
shall be visited upon the children, innocent and 
guilty alike to bear the yoke of sorrow and to 
feel the stern grip of the hand of punishment : 
cruel, unjust, diabolical, no doubt, — but a fact. We 
see it in the everyday meeting with our fellows; 
the morally warped, the socially degraded, the sin- 
fully diseased, the hopelessly insane, all bear wit- 


118 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


ness of this dreadful truth. Whether there is 
justice or sense in such a law, whether it be 
divine or devil-bred, we cannot say, but it is a 
law, an inexorable, terrible, awful fact. “ Be sure 
your sin will find you out : ” if not during your 
life, perhaps, in the lives of those, whom you 
leave behind you, to struggle through their lives, 
handicapped by your folly, cursed by your sins. 
Could the millions, to-day laboring under the 
blight placed upon them by their fathers, behold, 
as in a panorama, the deeds for which they now 
are doing penance, being innocent themselves, 
there might be an uprising of indignation, a pour- 
ing out of the phials of wrath, a panic of curs- 
ings and reproach, such as the God of the Jews 
himself could scarcely hope to hurl from his 
high throne above. 

“ Be sure your sin will find you out ; ” this 
has a significance, more than personal, wider in 
its application than the laws of nations, or the 
religions of the world. The man who loves his 
honor, the man who loves his posterity, the man 
who loves mankind (and, if one be not such a 
man as this, he is but little higher than the breed- 
ing-bull or the protozoon, which parts from its 


ALICE ; OR, THE WAGES OF SIN. 


119 


budded offspring never to meet it again) must 
ever bear this truth in mind. If he is sure that 
his sin will find him out, reading the injunction 
in its broadest meaning, he will be careful lest 
he sin. These words carry with them no prom- 
ise of pardon, no hint of forgiveness, no hope of 
absolution. They are plain, terse, and not to be 
misunderstood. They are the embodiment of all 
warnings against wrong-doing, and the succinct 
codification of unalterable, inexorable, passionless 
law. 

“ Be sure your sin will find you out.” 


THE END. 


’ 

. 

' "■ v 
































* 






















/ 








♦ 
















f 












- * 


- 










i. 


/ 




























. * 
v 

























































































































































































































v 





























































































• J t 






















































































































■ 

• ' . 

• 


■ ‘ ' ' : :<c 

At' 














• » 










































c 

< c 

< c 

c 

C C 

CC c 

c 

c c 

C_ c « 

c 

— -■ 

c < 

c c < 

^z 1 

c c 

C. c< 

c 

c <e 


d 

*5 c C 

dZ c 

c 

cc <r 

<T~ <r < 

c 

occ 

<HT <"< 

. dz 

<»« 

dlT^ c - 

<z; 

f Cc 

C < 

c 

OG 

^ 7 c c 


C c<t 

C. . 

<1 «*“- 

Cl <CT 

c <<k; 

f <31 cc 

5! ' C. - c 

c <L~ <c. 

di crh. 
C ccc 


C C 

c c 
. c 

<Z < 

c 

c 

.< 

c 

< 

• . f 


c 

O C <T' 

c 

<- 

C Cc c^~ < 

c 

& 

o <r - 

c 

< i 

d~«xc 

. <3 


c <; 

Co 

<C > 

d <.< cn 

c 

c,\ < . 

C - Cl 

<L 

c ■„ 

c c 

■ c 

xd < 

C_ «c_ 

c 

-c 

C r 

c 

11 

,<?. c 

dx 

:<-« 

CO c 

cl 

v'V< CC 

■C c 

c 


« c <z 

CH ^ 

* 5 c c. 

<c c c 

C <. c C 

?-.<SZ c: c: 

« C c 

<c: c c 

<C C r 


C C C 

« c c 

<C C C 

<C c C 

<C C c 

; r ' «C C C 
< <ac c c 
«d <r c: 
/■•«- ^ c c 

^ <C C c. 


s: 













A t r .*« . * • * • 


• ‘.t V, ' i r,r » 

' * k ‘i ‘ f 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


U f LAf <> 1 





0 D 0215 fl 4 c 13 c l 


, * 2 I 4 * , 4 > ' . 1 1 * 7 ® «< 3 « fti 

* :> • \ i • t i ^ • i%% A 

• ■ Y ■ ■ . ;*m. I 

1 • • » ■ vi lli * ANN 

A'/ 1 . » > j$y 

!.'•< • *;Ui ■ hY J 'V > ; 

v. ;jcij i;f f 1 1 * i . ! 

* v . ; • V-/ 

I 1 T * 

:■ - V«f> 

. • v VV/; i *•&; 

y, ; - r«ViMfc 

• ' ? i : * : ’ « ’ ; 1 1 

■ ■ 

, ' • * ;t • • . , , ‘ itl* 

i i®. f| • I (‘4 # i # A |U 

. 5 t . > \ \i .t V # ViVJ : 

1 ‘ \ H' ' 

* . .r /f ’ » . f *, ♦ » * • t i »*.*♦ .f.t 


4 *v 5 f 
£ / 1 


.rLu 


... 


. iV: ? . f fc? {. 

U ftm a 

> VT..V 

•fj 

’ 2 Svti 

t o*/ <’! 

, r f/i v> J 

h Pm * * 

tfKfi * w kUi 
^ ir.i. . • 




